With an inward prayer the young crew captain surged downward and forward. He grappled with—something—then fought his way the surface, holding that something tightly.
As they shot above the water Darrin's blood danced for joy.
It was Page—"good old Page!"—whom he had brought to the top.
"Got him safe?" bellowed Farley, over the water.
Dave was too winded to answer. He thrust one hand above his head, waving it joyfully. Then he let the hand fall that he might better attend to his work.
For a few moments they floated there. The nearest of the sailing cutters was now nearing the victims of the wreck.
The boat, however, would reach Darrin last of all.
While Darrin watched Farley and three others clambering aboard the rescuing boat, the young crew captain trod water, supporting Page at the same time.
Then Page opened his eyes, as though returning from a faint, rather than reviving from a partial drowning.
"Hold me tight!" gasped Page, almost in a whisper. "I'm a fearfully poor swimmer."