As he spoke he plunged over the side and struck out for a towering object that rose and fell in the waves only a few yards away. Linton realised that that was where the clangour of the bell was coming from—the refuge of the shipwrecked—the bell-buoy close at hand!
Before he fully knew what he was about, he, too, was struggling in the waves. He was a strong swimmer, but, clogged with his wet clothing, another yard or two would have been too much for him. He shouted some incoherent words of encouragement to Renshaw, and struck out with all his small remaining strength. The tall frame-work of the Spit-buoy rose out of the sea just in front of him. From its apex came louder than ever the noise of the iron clapper beating on the metal, as the tossing sea roiled the huge buoy this way and that.
His hand touched something hard.
He grasped an iron rail. Slowly and laboriously he drew his dripping form out of the sea. Then, panting heavily, he threw himself down face downward, full length, on the deck of the buoy, and stretched out both hands to the other swimmer. Renshaw's strength seemed well nigh spent. He was making futile struggles to rid himself of his heavy coat. As he rolled over helplessly, almost swept beneath the buoy, Linton grasped his collar.
The next moment he had drawn him to the rail. A breathing space, and then another effort, exhausting and prolonged.
Two panting men, half drowned but saved, lay side by side upon the buoy, fenced from the greedy sea by rusty, dripping iron bars. Above them, in the stormy mournful night, ding dong! the bell kept clanging to and fro—this way and that, with every wave and motion of the singing sea.
THE COUP D'ÉTAT.