He swung out his left arm and dropped his hand in front of his head. His head went under with the impetus he got, and when he came up he saw Santa Cruz glimmer pearly-grey. The shadow had crept across the town and was moving out to sea. Kit did not see the others; when one uses the overhand stroke one does not see much, and for the most part he was down in the hollow of the trough. He made the best possible speed he could, but after a time found the effort hard. Kit was not a mountaineer, and climbing across broken lava for eight or nine hours is strenuous work. Besides, the water was colder than he had thought, and when he swung up on a long undulation he stopped and looked about.
The sun had gone and the sea was dark. Between him and the beach a small white object broke the surface and vanished; farther back, he saw a dot like a swimmer's head. He was too far out: the bathing house looked a long way off, he could not see the launch. Then he sank into the hollow and the view was lost.
Kit changed his stroke and swam on his chest. He must economise his strength, because he doubted if he could reach the sandy beach, and to land on the reefs would be awkward. In fact, it began to look as if he was not altogether swimming for sport. Perhaps he ought to steer for the correillo, but she was some distance off. By and by he heard a faint shout and paddled easily until a man overtook him.
"Hallo, Nelson!" he said. "Are you trying to get past?"
"Not at all," gasped the other. "I've had enough. Saw you were going away and made a spurt."
Kit, swimming slowly, could talk without much effort, and asked: "Where's Macallister?"
"On the mole; wish I was! Where are you heading?"
"I thought about the correillo."
Nelson blew the water from his sinking lips. "Too far. I'm going to the African boat."
"We have got no clothes."