He ran down to the shore, along the rough, overgrown path. It was only a few yards to the beach, but a little longer around the shore to the stream and the place where the stepping stones crossed. He could see by the mist-obscured moonlight that the tide had come in and was going out again and that the water was still running over the causeway.
“It can’t be so very deep,” he thought, and taking off his coat and hanging his shoes about his neck, he waded cautiously into the stream. Up to his knees, his waist, his arms, it rose; one step more and it would be up to his neck.
“I will have to swim it,” he said to himself, and even at that moment he was swept off his feet and borne struggling into the deeper water. He had wondered a little earlier in the day why the bluejackets had not swum across instead of going around that long, hot way by the road. It came to him now in a sudden flash that seasoned sailors knew more about the tide currents than did boys, that he had done an inexcusably foolish thing. He swam with all his strength, wildly at first; he sank, came up, and struck out again. He was at first angry to find he had no hope of reaching the other shore; then his anger turned quickly to a single thought—could he possibly struggle back to land again? So weary was he with all he had recently been through, that he found suddenly his strength was going. He realized that the current, firmly and surely, was bearing him down to the mouth of the stream and carrying him out to sea, to be lost in the tossing waves and the blanket of heavy fog, yet he could make scarcely an effort to save himself.
He remembered suddenly that no one would have the faintest idea what had become of him, that Sally would search for him everywhere, would call and call in vain, for he would have apparently vanished from the face of the earth. She would be left alone there with a helpless delirious man, and with Heaven knew what lurking terrors in the dark old mill. The thought gave him strength to put every last atom of energy into one final endeavour and to struggle free of the current just as it was sweeping him past the last point of rocks. He felt the force of the tide abate a little, then he drifted into an eddy and came quietly to shore on a bit of gravel beach.
For a long time he lay panting and exhausted, making no effort to move. It seemed as though he would never get his lungs full of air again, so completely had he spent both his breath and his strength. At last he sat up, discovered to his surprise that he was still half in the water, crawled up the bank and began trying to wring out his dripping clothes.
“I don’t think there is much fun in adventures that you have all alone,” was the grave comment that he made to himself as he stumbled up the beach.
“Now, just what can I tell Sally?” he was thinking further when Sally’s own voice interrupted him. He heard her quick feet coming down the path and heard her voice, raised high in real terror, crying,
“Billy—Billy Wentworth!”
He ran up through the bushes and met her as she came flying toward him through the mist.
“Come quick,” she cried; “come quick. It’s Captain Saulsby. I—I, oh, Billy, I’m so frightened!”