“But we hain’t got a rope,” growled Captain Cole, “so what’s the use? But we can form a line ourselves, and maybe get out to him.”
This was no sooner mentioned than it was done, all taking hold of hands, and while those composing one end of the line stood on the shore, the others waded out as far as was prudent, the whole line running backward when it was deemed prudent, or those furthest out to sea did their best to “ride” the billows, as they came rolling in.
Captain Cole intended to take the outer end or post of danger himself, but seeing the anxiety of Little Rifle, and noticing her excellence as a swimmer, he permitted her to go out, while he griped her small hand in his horny palm, with a power that would have pulled the arm from the socket before it would have permitted it to be withdrawn from his grasp.
It was well that the captain retained his hold upon the hand or wrist of Little Rifle; for her anxiety to get out to the assistance of the despairing Harry Northend was so great, that she would have plunged directly among the waves, careless of her own fate, in her desire to save him.
But the sailor would not permit any such vicarious sacrifice as that, struggle as much as she might. Three separate times Little Rifle attempted to catch the coat of the boy, as he went up the billow; but he was too weak to help himself, and she just missed him each time.
Again a giant wave carried him aloft, and, as Captain Cole gave her more room, she threw herself into it also, with the resolve to secure him this time, no matter at what cost.
A desperate clutch, as far out as the iron grip of the sailor would permit, and her hand grasped the sleeve of the boy. She had caught him at last.
The captain saw it, and giving the signal, the rest of the line ran up the beach, the half-dozen who were furthest out, tumbling pell mell over each other, as the wave broke and carried them up the sand.
As soon as she felt that they were safe against being carried back by the undertow, Little Rifle knelt over the form of Harry, and raising his head upon her knee, looked longingly down on his face to see whether life had departed or not. It was hard for her to tell, but while gazing, the bluff Captain Cole stooped over her shoulder and put his hand upon his forehead and then upon his chest.
“Oh! he’s all right,” he said; “considerably bruised and half-choked, but don’t you see he’s breathing?”