“Ah!” she exclaimed again, after a little intake of breath.
There were two round objects rising and falling in the rough water–and far ahead. They looked like cocoanuts.
But a little to one side was a long, black something–a stick of timber drifting on the current? No! An overturned boat.
There was no mistaking the cocoanut-like objects. They were human heads. Two capsized people were struggling in the lake.
Polly, in thirty seconds, was keenly alive to what she must do. There was no time lost in bewailing the catastrophe, or wondering about the identity of the castaways.
Who or whatever they were they must be saved. There was not another boat on the lake. And the swimmers were too far from land to be observed under any conditions.
The wind was strong and steady. The wavelets were still choppy, but Polly Jarley never thought of a wetting.
Up went the sail–up, up, up until the unhelmed catboat lay over almost on beam ends. The girl took a sailor’s turn of the sheet around the cleat and then swung all her weight against the tiller, to bring the boat’s head up. She held the sheet ready to let go if a warning creak from the mast should sound, or the boat refuse to respond.
But in half a minute the Coquette righted. It had been a perilous chance–she might have torn the stick out. The immediate peril was past, however. The great canvas filled. Away shot the sprightly Coquette with the wind–a bone in her teeth.
Now and then she dipped and the spume flew high, drenching Polly. The boatman’s daughter was not dressed for this rough work, for she was hatless and wore merely a blouse and old skirt for outside garments. She had pulled off her shoes and stockings while she fished and had not had time to put them on again.