He lay with the back of his head in amongst the reeds for some minutes, not daring to move lest he should glide back into deep water, but even now the waves were rippling end playing in his ears. He could not stay long, however, like that, for he had Wat Kilby to think of; and throwing one arm back over the reeds he dragged himself more amongst them, and at the same time pulled Wat close to his side.
How it was done he never afterwards knew, only that he contrived somehow to rouse the old sailor sufficiently to once more take a little interest in life, and draw himself over and amongst the reeds.
So far from being in safety, all they had gained was the power to breathe, for at the least movement the thin, whispering, water-grasses gave way, and their position was worse.
“Can you hear me speak, Wat?” said Gil at last, in a hoarse voice, as he felt that he was once more gaining breath.
“Ay, skipper,” said the old fellow, faintly; “I be not dead yet.”
“Can you draw yourself more amongst the reeds?”
There was a few minutes’ pause, and then Wat said with a groan, “No, skipper. If I move, it means going below; there’s nothing to hold on by.”
Gil foresaw that this would be the reply, for on feeling cautiously round he could only come to the conclusion that they were half floating, half lying, among some nearly-submerged reeds, and that the slightest effort to better their condition meant the destruction of the frail support.
“Wait till you get your breath, Wat, and then shout for help,” said Gil.
“Nay, I’ll not call,” was the hoarse reply. “Do thou shout, skipper.”