Bill, who knew that physical exertion was absolutely necessary now, got his arm about her and they started unsteadily down the beach assisted by the gale at their backs.
They had walked about half a mile when he felt her weight begin to increase and her steps to lag. He stopped and peered into her face. As he did so, she sank to the sand at his feet. Bending over her, he was surprised to see that she was asleep—utterly exhausted.
The outlook was anything but pleasant. They had apparently struck upon a wild and desolate strip of sand—an island, he thought, cut off by inlets at either end and flanked by the maze of marshes in the lower reaches of Great South Bay. Without doubt they were marooned and to make matters worse, Bill knew he had just about reached the limit of his own strength.
Chapter XI
FROM OUT THE SEA
Bill stared down at Dorothy sleeping the sleep of exhaustion on the cold, wet sand. Her clothes, like his, were soaked with sea water and with rain. He realized that something must be done at once, or they would both be in for pneumonia. So stripping off his rubber coat and covering the unconscious girl, he started for the dunes.
Day was breaking as he left the shingle and commenced to plow through the loose sand. The storm was abating somewhat. Although the wind still blew half a gale, the sleet had turned to a fine, cold rain which bade fair to stop altogether once the sun was fully up. By the time Bill Bolton worked his painfully slow way to the top of the dunes it was light enough to see for a considerable distance.
At first glance the prospect was anything but alluring. His point of vantage was in the approximate center of an island of sand and shingle, a mile long, perhaps, by half a mile wide. Inlets from the white-capped Atlantic effectually cut off escape at either end of the outer beach on which a fearsome surf was pounding. Along the inner shore of this desolate, wind-swept islet a complicated network of channels intertwined about still other islands as far as the eye would reach. Nor could Bill make out any sign of human habitation.
“Water, water, everywhere, and not a gol-darned drop to drink,” he misquoted thoughtfully and wondered if by chewing the eel grass he would be able to get rid of the parched feeling of his mouth and throat.
He pulled a broad blade and chewed it meditatively. Then spat it out in disgust. The grass was as salty as the sea. It made him thirstier than ever. Turning seaward he swept the pale horizon with a despondent gaze.
Not a sign of a craft of any description could be seen. Wait a minute, though. Bill caught his breath. What was that—bobbing in the chop of the waves, just outside the bar of the eastern inlet? Could it be a boat? In this gray light a proper focus was difficult. It was a boat, open; a lifeboat, by the look of it. Waiting no longer for speculation, he hurried down the low hill toward the sea.