As Bob gave an alarmed glance over his shoulder, a big, white object shot by him and there was another crash. The boat bearing the light had twice struck the beach and was already stranded in the shallow water. With a yell, the solitary occupant of the unfortunate craft sprang into the receding wash of water and caught the side of the beached craft. Before another wave could engulf the boat, Bob had grasped the other side of the long, white object.
Without speaking to each other, but impelled by the same purpose, when the next roller came thundering beachward, Bob and the unknown boatman threw themselves against the craft and, on the roll of surge, shot the beached boat high up on the shore. Another effort and the boat was beyond the reach of the water.
Before he spoke, the rescued man reached into the boat and shut off the engine. In the yellow glare of a smoking lantern, which still flickered, suspended from a stub of a jack staff, Bob caught sight of the rescued boatman’s face. It was Mac Gregory, and the saved craft was the old life saving boat, the Escambia.
“On your way to the camp?” said Bob at once, as Mac looked up and the eyes of the two boys met.
The first answer was an oath. But, to tell the truth, it carried more gratitude than resentment. Then the astounded and trembling Mac added:
“How’d you come here? Ain’t beached are you?”
“Been waitin’ for you,” answered Bob, with self possession. “I saw you comin’, and I reckoned you were off your course. No, we ain’t beached. We are at anchor, waitin’ for better weather.”
“I guess you helped save the Escambia,” conceded Mac. “I thought I was on the bay. I reckon I couldn’t a got her out alone—much obliged,” he added hastily.
“Then you’ll still have a chance to bust up the club,” said Bob. “I suppose you are on your way to the camp?”
“You kids didn’t give me no square deal,” answered Mac resentfully.