An hour or so later, a morbidly expectant group gathered on the river-bank.  Redmond, luckily, had reached the detachment just prior to the coroner’s departure, and that gentleman now comprised one of a party.  Slavin had hitched his team to a cotton-wood clump nearby, and was now busily rigging the double set of three-pronged grappling-irons.  When all was ready, he motioned to his companions to stand back, and then, with a preliminary whirl or two, flung the irons into the pool, some distance ahead of the spot indicated by Redmond.

Slowly and ponderously he began the dragging recover, with the muscular skill of a man long inured to the gruesome business.  His first effort was unsuccessful—­weeds and refuse were all he salvaged.  He tried again, with the same result.  Cast after cast proved futile.  After the last failure he turned and glowered morosely upon Redmond.

“‘Tis either dhrunk or dhramin’ ye must be, bhoy!  There’s nothin’ there.  I’ve a good mind,” he added slowly “a d——­d good mind tu shove ye undher arrest for makin’ a friv’lus report tu yeh superior!”

Yorke now came to his comrade’s rescue.  “By gum, Burke,” he flashed out “if you’d seen his mug when he came up out of that hole you wouldn’t have thought there was anything frivolous about it, I can tell you!”

Poor George voiced a vehement protest, in self defense.  “Good God, Sergeant!” he expostulated, “d’you think I’d come to you with a yarn like that?  I tell you it is there.  Have another try.  Sling farther over to the right here!”

Grumblingly, the latter complied, and began the slow recover.  Suddenly, the rope checked.  Slavin strained a moment, then he turned around to the expectant group.  “Got ut’” he announced grimly.  “I can tell by th’ feel av ut.  Tail on tu th’ rope there, all av yez!  Now!  Yeo!  Heave ho!”

Like a tug of war team they all bowed their backs and strained with all their might; but their efforts proved futile.  “Vast heavin!” said Slavin, breathing heavily. “‘Tis shtuck somehow—­I will have tu get th’ team an’ double-trees.  Get a log off’n that breakwater, bhoys, so’s th’ rope will not cut inta th’ edge av th’ bank.”

He crossed over to the horses.  “Now!” said he, some minutes later, as he backed up the team and made all fast to the double-trees.  “Yu’, Reddy, an’ Lanky, guide th’ rope over th’ log.  Yu’, Yorkey, get th’ feel av ut, an’ give me th’ wurrd.  I du not want to break ut.”

Yorke leant over the edge of the bank, loosely feeling the rope.  “All right!” he announced.

Slavin, edging his team cautiously forward, and taking the strain to avoid a violent jerk, clucked to them.  With a scramble, and a steady heave of their powerful hind-quarters, they started.

With bated breath the watchers gazed at the rope—­creeping foot by foot out of the discoloured water.

“Keep a-going!” Yorke shouted to Slavin.  “It’s coming up, all right!”