"I can move along slowly," he said; "there's a way across the point."
They were some time in crossing the slippery rocks, but at last Whitney helped the lad down to the sand and felt keen satisfaction when they came to the dinghy.
"I'm much better," Dick said as Whitney pushed off. "I must have been half stunned—guess I knocked my head as I fell down the last bit."
"Is it cut?"
"Don't fuss!" Dick answered irritably. "She'll wash back up the beach if you don't pull."
Whitney occupied himself with the oars; but he felt puzzled. Dick seemed to have turned dizzy before he fell; and although it was possible that he struck his head, his statement that he had done so looked like an afterthought. It was, however, his business now to find the Rowan, and he could see by the way the cliff slid past that the tide was running down. He had to pull hard to get near the island, and the wind was rising, but soon he distinguished a patch of dark canvas, and a few minutes later he ran the dinghy alongside the yacht.
"Lash the helm and come below!" he called to Andrew, after helping Dick on board.
Andrew stopped to throw a sail over the skylight when Whitney lighted the lamps, and then went down and looked at Dick, who lay on a locker. His face was very white, his lips had a blue tint, and the veins showed dark on the back of his colorless hands.
"I think you had better have a drink," he said, taking out a whisky bottle.
Dick drained the glass.