“Gone only a few minutes before us,” Max groaned, now thoroughly serious and alive to his fate.
Was it imagination?
Were their senses so numbed that they did not feel the dizzying whirl of the boat, or had the boat suddenly become stationary?
Ibrahim looked with bloodshot eyes at Max.
The madcap returned the look, equally puzzled as to what had taken place.
They had reached the very center of the whirlpool, and the fury of the whirling waters had spent themselves.
Like the famous Moskoestrom or Maelstrom, off the Norwegian coast, the center was calm and still, while the outer rings were lashed everything with the greatest fury.
Like that European whirlpool, the smaller African one seemed to get tired and have a period of rest.
“Pull back, boys,” said Max, when he saw that Ibrahim had seized the oar the dead Arab had let fall.
Both bent themselves with their whole strength to the oars, and the boat moved as they willed it.