“Then good luck to you!” cried the sailor, as, relieved of the boy’s weight, he too swung head downwards for a moment or two, then with a quick effort wrenched himself upwards, got hold of the branch with both hands, and after hanging like a sloth for a few moments, succeeded in dragging himself upon the bough, which all the while was swaying heavily up and down and threatening to shake Rodd from where he hung, but at the same time inciting him so to fresh desperate action, that with all a boy’s activity he too had succeeded in perching himself astride of the branch.
“All right, my lad?” cried Briggs.
“Ye–es!” came gaspingly.
“Then you wait a bit and get your wind, my lad.—Joe Cross! Ahoy!” he yelled, as if his messmate were half-a-mile away.
“Right ho!” came from below. “Where’s the boy?”
“Here, Joe—here!” shouted Rodd, the sound of the man’s voice seeming to send energy through him.
“Hah–h–h!” came from the sailor, and directly after from different parts of the tree there was a cheer.
“Now then, what about you, matey?” shouted Briggs.
“Well, I dunno yet, my lad; I’m just going to try and shape it round. I want to know where some of the others are, and whether if I let go I couldn’t manage to make a scramble and swim so as to join a mate.”
“No, no, no!” came in chorus. “Don’t try it, lad. Aren’t you safe where you are?”