With his cry there broke out half a dozen others, and the men rushed up to him with frightened faces. . “Are yo' hurt, Seth, lad?” they cried. “Are yo' crushed or owt?”
The poor fellow stirred a little and then looked up at them pale enough.
“Bruised a bit,” he answered them, “an' sick a bit, but I dunnot think theer's any bones broke. Look sharp, chaps, an' heave her up. She's a moit o' weight on me.”
They went to work again one and all, so relieved by his words that they were doubly strong, but after toiling like giants for a while they were compelled to pause for breath. In falling the boat had so buried herself in the sand that she was harder to move than ever. It had seemed simple enough at first, but it was not so simple, after all. With all their efforts they had scarcely stirred her an inch, and their comrade's position interfered with almost every plan suggested. Then they tried again, but this time with less effect than before, through their fatigue. When they were obliged to pause they looked at each other questioningly, and more than one of them turned a trifle paler, and at last the wisest of them spoke out:—
“Lads,” he said, “we conna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run wi' thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide'll flow.”
Up to this time the man on the sands had lain with closed eyes and set teeth, but when he heard this his eyes opened and he looked up.
“Eh!” he said, in that blind, stupid fashion. “What's that theer tha's sayin' Mester?”
“Th' tide,” blundered the speaker. “I wur tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw.”
The poor fellow moved restlessly.
“Aye! aye!” he said. “Look sharp—he mun do that. I didna think o' th' tide.” And he shut his eyes again with a faint groan.