“Good throw—whoever sent it!” cheered Tom Reade, as a final cast—Harry's—sent a line within six inches of his face.
Tom could not see those back at the platform, for his back was turned to the eastward, and he could no longer swing his body about.
“Get it under your arms-quick, Tom, or you're done for, too!” screamed Harry.
“Keep cool, old chap!” came back the unconcerned answer. “It isn't half bad out here. The sand feels really cool about one's body.”
“This is no time for nonsense!” ordered Hazelton hoarsely. “Have you the line fast?”
“Yes!” nodded Reade. “Haul away! Careful, but strong and steady!”
Under Foreman Payson's direction a score of men seized the other end of the line and then began to haul.
Harry danced up and down in a frenzy.
“Tom, you idiot,” he gasped. “You haven't made the line fast about yourself.”
“Not yet,” came the cheery answer. “That wouldn't be fair play. Haul away on our friend out yonder.”