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Updated: May 9, 2025
As he stood leaning on a staff half bent, his long, yellow bony fingers clasped over the crutch-head of his stick, he was indeed a picture of misery, famine, squalor, and premature age, too horrible to dwell upon. I made him sit down, sent for some refreshment which he devoured like a ghoul, and set to work to unravel his story.
He reached forward holding the crutch at arm's length. "Can you catch hold?" "All right." Both knew that swimming would be useless now; they were too near the upper apex of the sand-bank. "The child first. Here, Joey, my son! reach out and catch hold for your life." Taffy felt the child's grip on the crutch-head, and drawing it steadily toward him hauled the poor child through.
Still as she screamed, George, silent and panting, thrust against her, thrust savagely against the quivering body, once his pride for beauty and fleetness. "Pull!" he gasped, freeing his other foot with a wrench which left its heavy riding-boot deep in the sucking mud; and catching a new grip on the crutch-head, flung himself forward.
The light from the cliff sank and rose behind his scared face. "Got him?" "Yes." The sand was closing around Taffy's legs, but he managed to shift his footing a little. "Quick, then; the bank's breaking up." George was sinking, knee-deep and deeper. But his outstretched fingers managed to reach and hook themselves around the crutch-head. "Steady, now . . . must work you loose first.
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