“Can you?” panted poor Dick, who was nearly exhausted. “How far is it?”
“About two miles, but the tide’s with us.”
“I can’t do it,” panted Dick, “not a hundred yards.”
“Yes, you can,” said Will firmly. “Only just move your arms steady, and let the tide carry you along. Josh,” he said more loudly, “keep close here.”
“Ay, lad, I will,” replied the fisherman; and the calm, confident tones of his companions, who spoke as if it were a matter of course to swim a couple of miles, encouraged the lad a little; but his powers and his confidence were fast ebbing away, and it was not a matter of many minutes before he would have been helpless.
For even if the sea had been perfectly smooth, he was no experienced swimmer, his efforts in this direction having been confined to a dip in the river when out on fishing excursions, or a bit of a practice in some swimming-bath at home. But the sea was not perfectly smooth, for the swift tide was steadily raising the water into long, gently heaving waves, which carried the swimmers, as it were, up one minute to the top of a little ridge, and then sank them the next down, down, out of sight, into what seemed to be profound darkness whenever the pier light was blotted out.
“I—I—can’t keep on,” panted Dick at last, with a piteous cry. “Tell father—”
He could say no more, for, striking out feebly, he had allowed his mouth to sink beneath the surface, and breathing in a quantity of strangling water he began to beat the surface, and then felt himself seized.
Involuntarily, and with that natural instinct that prompts the drowning to cling to anything they touch, Dick’s hands clutched despairing at the stout arm that came to his help, but only to feel himself shaken off and snatched back, so that his face was turned towards the stars.
“Float! Hold still! Hands under water!” a voice yelled in his ear; and half stunned, half insensible, he obeyed, getting his breath better at times, at others feeling the strangling water sweep over his face.