He helped the girl into the boat, and when he had thrust the little craft off sent her flying down the riband of sheltered water; but he set his lips and braced himself for an effort when they slid out past a point of froth-lapped shingle. There was already a white-topped sea running, and the spray from the oar-blades and the dinghy’s bows blew aft into his companion’s face in stinging wisps as he drove the plunging craft over it. Now and then an odd bucketful of brine came in and hit him on the back, while Miss Hamilton, who commenced to get very wet, shivered and drew her feet up as the water gathered deeper in the bottom of the boat.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to throw some of that water out,” he said. “There is a can to scoop it up with.”
The girl made an attempt to do so, but it was not surprising that in a few minutes, when the dinghy lurched viciously, she let the can slip from her fingers. Nasmyth set his lips tighter, and his face was anxious as he glanced over his shoulder. The sea was white-flecked between him and the Tillicum, which lay rolling wildly farther 177 down the beach, at least half a mile away. It already taxed all Nasmyth’s strength to drive the dinghy off shore, and every sea that broke a little more sharply than the rest splashed into the boat. He held on for another few minutes, glancing over his shoulder and pulling cautiously, for it was evident that he might fill the dinghy up or roll her over if he failed to swing neatly over the crest of some tumbling comber. In spite of his efforts, a wave broke on board, and sitting ankle-deep in water, he waited until there was a slightly smoother patch in front of him, and then swung the dinghy round.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to make for the beach,” he announced.
He would have preferred to head for the inlet, but that would have brought the little white seas, which were rapidly getting steeper, dangerously on her beam, and the thrust of one beneath her side probably would have been sufficient to turn the diminutive craft over. He accordingly pulled straight for the beach before the wind, and the perspiration dripped from his set face as he strove to hold the dinghy straight, when, with the foam boiling white about her, she swung up on the crest of a comber. Once or twice Nasmyth glanced at Violet Hamilton reassuringly, but she sat, half-crouching, against the transom, gazing forward, white in face, with her wet hair whipping about her. Nasmyth had not noticed it before, but her hat had evidently gone over. Speech was out of the question. He wanted all his breath, and recognized that it was not advisable to divert his attention for a moment from his task, for it depends very largely upon the man at the oars whether a diminutive dinghy keeps right side uppermost in any weight of breeze. Once or twice he risked a glance at the approaching land.
Sombre forest rolled down to the water’s edge, and he could see that there was already a broad ribbon of frothy whiteness beneath it, while so far as he had noticed 178 that beach consisted of rock ledges and very large boulders. It was about the last place he would have chosen to make a landing on, in a light and fragile dinghy.
After that, he looked resolutely astern over his companion’s shoulders as she swung up between him and the sea with the slate-green ridges and tumbling white tops of the combers behind her. At length a hazarded glance showed him that they were close inshore, and he wondered for a moment whether he could swing the dinghy round without rolling the boat over. He did not think it could be done, and set his lips as he let her go, careering on a comber’s crest, with at least half her length out of the water.
Then there was a white upheaval close alongside, and for a moment a black mass of stone appeared amidst the leaping foam. They swept by it, and he gasped with relief as he looked at Miss Hamilton.
“Get hold of me when she strikes,” he said.
The dinghy swung round, twisting broadside-on with the brine pouring into her in spite of all that he could do; and while he tore at one oar, another white sea that curled menacingly rose up astern. It broke right into the boat, and in another moment there was a crash, and Nasmyth, who let the oars drop, stretched out his arms to the girl. He jumped when she clutched him, and found himself standing amid the swirling froth on what seemed to be a ledge of very slippery stone, with both arms about her, while the crushed-in dinghy swept up among the foam-lapped boulders. He sprang down from the stone as another sea came in, and floundered ashore waist-deep with it, after which he set his dripping companion down upon the beach.