Hildegarde made her way blindly, stumbling among stones, scattering bits of pilot bread in her wake, and casting backward looks.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Cheviot was shouting.
“She’s so lame!” Hildegarde couldn’t hear his next words, but she caught the quick gesture of one who reproachfully reminds himself. And he was flying forward to her aid.
“I’m all right—but the dog—”
Without slackening pace, a hand at either side of his mouth, he called: “They can’t hold the boat in that surf.”
“Ky—the dog—”
“Red’s all right. He’s there.” Louis was near enough now for her to see the heat of the race in his face as he called out: “The captain will be furious—” The rest was caught away by the wind, till quite near: “I’ll pull you along. Here, catch hold of my hand.”
“Oh, Louis, I’ve got something to tell—”
“—ankle giving out again?”
“No, not that.”