“Got what ready?”
“Why, the message,” exclaimed Hawkins, opening his eyes in astonishment. “We'll have to hustle with it, I reckon.”
“Hawkins, what new idiocy is this?” I gasped.
“Surely we're going to give that steamer a few lines to tell the world about our trip?”
Seconds passed, before the full, terrible significance of his words filtered into my brain.
“Do you mean to say,” I roared, “that you are not going to swim for that boat?”
“Certainly I do mean to say it,” he replied stiffly. “Let me have your fountain pen, Griggs.”
I took one glance at the boat. I took another at Hawkins. Then I gripped him about the waist and threw my whole soul into the task of pitching him overboard.
Hawkins, as I have said, is heavier than I. He puffed and strained and pulled and hauled at me, swearing like a trooper the while. And neither of us budged an inch.
The cutter came nearer, nearer, always nearer. Thirty seconds more and we should shoot by it forever. The thought of losing this chance of rescue almost maddened me.