“Not so very far now, Mas’ Don,” he said. “You feel better now, don’t you?”
“Jem.”
“Yes, lad.”
“It’s getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can’t. Can you shake hands?”
“No!” cried Jem, fiercely. “You turn over and float.”
Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don’s neck.
“It’s all right, my lad. Don’t lose heart,” he said. “It’s wonderful easy to float; but you’re tired. It’s your clothes does it. You’re a wonderful good swimmer, Mas’ Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can’t swim for ever in clothes. That’s resting you, arn’t it? I’m fresh as a lark, I am. So ’ll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We’re close in shore, only it’s so dark. We’ve done ’em. Boats is right away.”
“Are they—are they right away, Jem?”
“Yes, my lad, thank goodness!”
Don groaned.