“’Tis nought but a stoker gone crazy with the heat of the day,” Bert heard a man say.
“Ay,” growled a stoker who had also overheard. “’Tis a wonder that we are all not crazy or dead this day, but that poor devil is worse off than us for he can’t swim a stroke.”
“Did you say that that man can’t swim?” Bert demanded, while a look of horror crept over his face.
“That I did, young feller,” the stoker answered, as he eyed Bert insolently from head to foot, “though doubtless he can find something to hang on to until——”
But Bert never heard the end of the sentence for he was busy untying his shoes and stripping off his coat.
“Bert, Bert, you are never going to risk your life needlessly for that madman,” Tom pleaded. “The boat is stopping, now, and it will pick him up in a few minutes. Anyway he’s crazy——”
But Bert stopped him. “He’s a man,” he said simply, “and he can’t swim.” Then there was a flash of white in the air, a quick splash and Bert was on his way to save a life.
Down there in the eddy and swirl of the waves, Bert had but one thought, one hope—to reach that little speck that he had sighted from the deck of the steamer. Nor did it once occur to him that he could have acted otherwise. One of his fellow beings had need of his splendid strength and skill, and not until they failed him would he give up the fight.
So on and on he swam, taxing his great vitality and endurance to the utmost. But to his tortured fancy it seemed as though he were being dragged backward. Surely he could not be making any progress at all at this speed. Then a fierce feeling of anger swept over him, burning him like a flame—anger at this feeling of impotence that threatened to master him.
“One would think,” he raged, “that I had never been outside a country town in my life. I am making progress. I can save that fellow’s life, and what’s more, I’m going to.”