“Are you ready, then, Roger? ’tis a race to the Stag Royal; and the first up the ship’s side and on her deck will win the noble,” exclaimed Harry.
“Agreed, lad; away we go!” replied Roger.
And the two started off, swimming strongly, with a side stroke instead of the breast; for although the former required more power, yet it was the faster stroke, and they reckoned their strength to be quite equal to a much longer distance than that to the ship.
But, as is invariably the case, distance viewed over water is deceptive, and by the time that they had done three-quarters of the course both were feeling pretty well fagged out with their unusual exertions, though neither would admit it; and the fact remained that they were swimming much slower than at the start. Suddenly they were startled by a loud hail from the deck of the Stag Royal—the ship for which they were making,—in the voice of Cavendish.
“Be not frightened, lads, but pull out as fast as you can for the ship; there are sharks coming after you!”
Their hearts leapt in their breasts at this startling news, and, looking hurriedly round, they perceived, to their horror, that several black triangular dorsal fins were cleaving the water in their wake, and closing rapidly in upon them.
Fortunately the water in the direction in which they were swimming was as yet clear, to all appearance.
“Cannot you send a boat, sir? We are nearly exhausted with the swim,” hailed Roger, who was slightly in advance of Harry.
“Nay, that I cannot, lad, for all the boats are still on shore. You must swim, and for your lives’ sake swim hard,” answered Cavendish from the deck of the ship.
He was leaning anxiously over the bulwarks, and the rail was lined with the faces of the few seamen who were left on board, while two of them had gone down the accommodation ladder and were waiting at the foot, ready to haul the lads in as soon as they were near enough.