ON THE WHISTLER
Jim was the first to recover his breath.
"Well!" he ejaculated. "Here we are! And mighty fortunate! We'll neither of us ever have a closer shave."
He looked southwest, where the ledge was breaking white through the gloom, and shook his head. Percy, shivering with excitement, said nothing; but he felt as thankful as his mate. They stood close together on the circular top, holding on to the crossed bails, waist-high. Between them rose the whistle, thirty inches tall. Every time they sank in the trough it emitted its dismal bellow.
To leeward the dory wallowed at the end of her painter, almost full of water.
"Split her bow when we struck," said Spurling. "Just as well not to be in her. At any rate, we're not drifting."
Their position, however, was none too secure. The buoy had a rise and fall of seven feet. Unsteadied by keel or rudder, it bobbed unexpectedly this way and that. The boys were obliged to cling fast to keep their footing on the narrow, slippery top.
A sudden jump of the rolling can wrenched Percy's right hand from its hold. But for his left, he would have been flung into the sea.
"That won't do," said Spurling.
Producing a coil of line, he took three or four turns round Percy's waist, and lashed him fast to the bails. He did the same for himself.