“He’ll be drowned now,” growled the man; “and sarve him right. He’s as strong as a hox.”
Mark saw the white-clothed figure strike the surface with a heavy plunge, and go down, make a carve of light beneath the water, and rise again to shake his black head and strike out for the open sea before him, insensible for the moment to everything but the idea of getting away. He, poor fellow, in his blind ignorance, knew no more, but before he had taken many strokes there was a wild gurgling shriek behind him, as the sailor’s head appeared, and the black stopped, turned, and swam back in time to seize the drowning man and hold him up just as he was dragged under again, the boat which had just kissed the water being still far-away, the Nautilus having glided on.
The natural result was that as the fish gave its fierce jerking tug, and the black held on to the sailor, both were dragged under; but grasping the difficulty, the black seized the line and made a desperate snatch at it, with sufficient strength to detach the grains, and they both rose again, with the rescuer swimming strongly, the rescued half drowned, helpless and unable to raise a hand to save himself.
“Hold on! Coming! Swim this way,” shouted the officer in charge of the boat; and as Mark looked aft at the actors in this scene, all growing more distant moment by moment, he heard Bob Howlett’s shrill voice plainly in spite of the distance,—“Hold on, Soup. Coming.”
The words sounded incongruous—ridiculous—but the voice influenced the black, who turned and swam slowly toward them, trying to support his charge.
“Can you see, Vandean?” said Mr Russell, who had crept to the bulwarks and stood beside the midshipman.
“Yes, but how slow the boat is.”
“They are keeping afloat, then—swimming?”
“I think one of them is,” said Mark in a whisper.
“Hah!” sighed the young lieutenant, “my eyes are dim and weak. How near is the boat now?”