Boats were putting off from the shore, but it would be long enough before they could do any good. The chances were that the end would have come before they reached the spot, and Richard Linnell was now within half a dozen yards.
“Let go,” he shouted to Cora. “Try and throw yourself out this side, and I’ll get you ashore.”
She only turned a dazed, despairing look in his direction, too much paralysed by the horror of her situation to even grasp his meaning.
“All right, Master Linnell, sir,” growled a deep voice. “Take it coolly, and we’ll do it.”
Linnell glanced aside, and saw that the swarthy fisherman who had been shrimping was not a couple of yards behind him.
“Look ye here, sir. Let the lady be. I’ll go round t’other side. You go this. Mind they don’t kick you. Take care. Wo-ho, my pretties; wo-ho, my lads,” he cried to the ponies, as, perfectly at his ease in the water, he swam past their heads, well clear of their beating and pawing hoofs, and got to the other side.
In cases of emergency, whether the order be right or wrong, one that is given by a firm, cool man is generally obeyed, and it was so here, for Linnell took a stroke or two forward towards the off-side pony, leaving Cora clinging to the front of the little carriage.
“Wo-ho, my beauties. Steady, boys,” cried the big fisherman soothingly.
“Woa, lad, woa, then,” cried Linnell, in imitation of his companion.
The ponies, the moment before snorting and plunging desperately, seemed to gather encouragement from the voices, and ceasing their frantic efforts, allowed themselves to sink lower in the water, let their bits be seized, and with outstretched necks, and nostrils just clear of the water, began to swim steadily and well.