“All the better for you,” growled one of the men to the dog glaring at him, “for I’d ha’ choked you if you’d come at me.—Pull away, blackies.”
The additional oars had the right effect, for as the four men pulled with all their might the boat began to stem the current and shorten the distance between it and the two drowning men. But, in spite of his great strength, Pete was being mastered by the heavy weight of the irons, and was getting lower and lower in the water; while Nic’s arms had ceased to move, and he was drifting with the tide.
“Keep up; strike out, lads,” cried the man in the bows, in agony. “We’re coming fast now.”
It was not the truth, for the heavy boat was moving very slowly against the swift tide, and the swimmers’ fate seemed to be sealed, as the man reached back, got hold of another oar, and thrust it out over the bows, ready for Pete to grasp as soon as he came within reach.
“We shall be too late,” groaned the man, with all his enmity against Pete forgotten in those wild moments of suspense. “Here, look out for the oar. Pete, lad, swim back. Oh! poor lad, he can’t hear me. He’s drownin’—he’s drownin’.”
Pete could not hear, and if he had heard during his frantic efforts to reach Nic, he would not have heeded, for there was no room in the man’s brain in those wild moments for more than that one thought—that he must save that poor, weak fellow’s life.
It takes long to describe, but in the real action all was condensed into less than a minute. Pete, who fought wildly, frantically, to keep his head above water, fought in vain, for his fettered legs were fast losing their power, and he was being drawn gradually lower and lower, till, after throwing his head back to gasp for a fresh breath, he straightened his neck again, with the water at his eyes, and saw that what he could not achieve the current had done for him.
He made a wild, last effort, and caught with one hand at the arm just within reach; his fingers closed upon it with a grip of iron, and another hand caught desperately at his hair.
Then the water closed over the pair, joined together in a death-grip, and the tide rolled them unresistingly up the stream.
“Pull, pull!” yelled the man in the bows, as he reached out with his oar; but he could not touch the place where he saw the figures disappear. Quick as thought, though, and with the clever method of one accustomed to the management of a fishing-boat, the man changed his tactics. He laid the oar over the prow, treating the iron stem as a rowlock, and gave a couple of strokes with all his might, pulling the boat’s head round, and bringing it well within reach of the spot where Nic’s back rose and showed just beneath the surface. Then, leaving the oar, the man reached over, and was just in time to get a good hold, as the oar dropped from the bow into the river, and he was almost jerked out of the boat himself.