Sharp as they were, his little claws just slipped, and
his struggles to get up only resulted in tiring him out and in
plunging him wholly beneath the sap. He came up choking and
gasping. Then round and round inside that pail he paddled, stopping
every two or three seconds to try to climb up that hateful, smooth,
shiny wall.
The more he tried to climb out, the more frightened he became.
He was in a perfect panic of fear. He quite lost his head,
did Whitefoot. The harder he struggled, the more tired he became,
and the greater was his danger of drowning.
Whitefoot squeaked pitifully. He didn't want to drown. Of course not.
He wanted to live. But unless he could get out of that pail
very soon, he would drown. He knew it. He knew that he couldn't
hold on much longer. He knew that just as soon as he stopped
paddling, he would sink. Already he was so tired from his frantic
efforts to escape that it seemed to him that he couldn't hold out
any longer. But somehow he kept his legs moving, and so kept afloat.
Just why he kept struggling, Whitefoot couldn't have told.
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