“No, George, you’re not.”
She was right. Chanler was in no shape to paddle any more, so Betty
took his place in the bow, and, with George crouched in the middle,
the journey up the fiord began. Save for an occasional groan or
exclamation from George and a soothing response from Betty, we spoke
but little.
I was lost in admiration of the manner in which Betty tackled the task
before us. She sat up, slim and straight, bending but little to her
paddle, but by our progress I knew the force which her young arms
placed behind each stroke. There was no hesitation, no faltering,
though I knew that she, too, dreaded returning to Brack in this
fashion. She seemed to have forgotten herself in the need to help
George; and the Spring-like youth of her reached back to me, putting
new life into my tiring arms, new confidence in my troubled thoughts.
I had for the moment almost fallen into despair, accepting Brack’s
will with us as invincible. Without Betty I would have felt that we
were beaten. But there was the indomitable confidence of youth in the
poise of her little head, there was inspiration in the swing of her
young-woman body, and as we paddled on into the darkness my heart
cried out:
“Bravo, Betty! Bravo, brave girl! We’ll beat him yet.”