“My husband’s underneath.”
“Well, I suppose he’s all right. In fact, I daresay he’s a good deal drier there than we are outside. We’d far better go into your tent and wait.”
“He’ll smother.”
“Not he. If he’s suffering from anything this minute I should say it is draughts.”
The canvas heaved convulsively. It was evident that some one underneath was making desperate efforts to get out.
“He’s smothering. I know he is.”
“Very well,” said Priscilla. “I’ll give you a help if you like; I don’t know much about tents and I may simply make things worse. However, I’ll try.”
She attacked a complex tangle of ropes vigorously. Miss Rutherford, with Frank leaning on her shoulder, staggered up the beach. Just as they reached the tents the head of a young man appeared under the flapping canvas. Then his arms struggled out. Priscilla seized him by the hands and pulled hard.
“Oh, Barnabas!” said the young lady, “are you safe?”
“He’s wet,” said Priscilla, “and rather muddy, but he’s evidently alive and he doesn’t look as if he was injured in any way.”