“Go down to leeward and pick me up,” he ordered, gathering himself together and springing far out into the dark river. As he struck out boldly sinister stories of the enchanted water surged back to him. He had heard how the suction from the muddy bottom was known to drag to their death even the strongest swimmers: men who had missed their footing while stepping into boats alongside their own ships had disappeared beneath the yellow surface never to rise again. The Chinese superstition was that a dragon lived in the river and that all persons who fell into his home were drawn to the bottom and devoured by the monster. Phil struggled manfully against these weird fancies, yet he was conscious of the force acting to suck his body down while he exerted all his strength to keep his head above the engulfing waters. The high-sided junks flashed by him as he swam with the current toward the victim struggling despairingly in the embrace of the river dragon. In a few moments his strong strokes had brought him alongside the drowning man. He grasped the man’s clothing and drew him closer, seeking a firmer hold. Avoiding the waving arms, Phil’s hand worked its way along the body until it reached his head, and there his fingers closed about the long braided cue; twisting this around his hand, the lad swam out toward the middle of the river. The Chinaman struggled violently, striving to grasp Phil’s hand. The boy saw with terror that if the Chinaman succeeded they would both drown. “Be still or I’ll let you go!” he commanded, forgetting in his anxiety that he was talking to a Chinaman, but nevertheless the man quieted down and Phil’s hopes rose. With the stinging water in his eyes, he gazed about him for the launch; he could scarcely see; the oppressive darkness seemed to be closing in about him. Then out of the night there loomed the sides of many junks, massed in tiers, directly in the path of the current carrying him. This new and terrible danger filled him with despair: even the strongest swimmer could not expect to survive if he were drawn under that wooden wall of vessels; if he were not crushed between their huge hulls he would be forced beneath the surface for so long a time that life would be extinct before he rose again. His one chance was to breast the tide, swimming out from shore in the hope that thus he might clear the outside junk.