“Yes, Joe,” panted Rodd.
“And once you get hold of Harry Briggs’ hands he’ll draw you up a bit. He’s a-hinging down like one of them there baboons, tail up’ards. Then, once he hystes you a bit, you get a good grip of him with your teeth anywhere that comes first. He won’t mind. That’ll set your hands free, and then up you goes bit by bit till you gets right into the tree.”
“Yes, Joe; and then?”
“Well, my lad, then I’d set down striddling and have a rest.”
“Below there! Ready!” cried Briggs. “I can’t reach no further, youngster, but I think if you can climb up and grip we might manage it.”
“Yes! Coming!” cried Rodd.
And then no one saw, and afterwards Rodd could hardly tell how he managed it, but with the water pressing him closer as he clung face to face with the partially submerged coxswain, he managed to scramble higher, clinging with arms and legs, till he occupied a hazardous position astride of the sailor’s shoulder, holding on with his left hand and reaching up with his right, snatching for a few moments at nothing.
“Where are you, my lad?” came from above.
“Here! Here!” panted Rodd, and then, “Ah, it’s of no use!”
As he spoke he felt himself going over, but at that moment his fingers touched the sleeve of a soft clinging jersey, a set of fingers gripped hard at his arm, and in a supreme effort he loosened his other hand, made a snatch, and then began swinging gently to and fro till another hand from above closed upon his jacket and lightened the strain.