“If I leaves you, Mas’ Don— Ahoy! Boat!—boat!”
Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog.
“Mas’ Don, Mas’ Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!” cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in.
But even then Don responded to Jem’s appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes.
“That’s it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas’ Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke—that’s it. Don’t give up. You can do it; and when you’re tired, I’ll help you. Well done—well done. Hah!”
Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion.
“Boat! Boat!” he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him.
But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other.
Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble.
“Mas’ Don,” he groaned; “I did try hard; but it’s all over. I’m dead beat, too.”