The suspense was anguish.
On they went with the fury of the torrent. “O, why haven’t I a paddle!” groaned little Phil Kennedy. Bruce raised himself, and looked around, with his pale face and staring eyes. Arthur, and Tom, and Bart put forth their last energies.
Four feet!
Not a word was spoken. The tightly compressed lips, the resolute eyes, the frowning brows of the struggling boys, spoke of their resolution; their panting, heaving breasts told how heavily they labored with their clumsy, unwieldy oars.
A roar sounded in their ears to the right. It was the rush of the current as it swept past the extreme verge of the ledge. There was the open sea. There lay their last chance; beyond it—destruction.
They knew it—they felt it. That sound struck on their ears like the knell-of doom. One last effort—one superhuman struggle. Nearer came the boat; although even then trembling on the extreme verge, yielding to the current, it turned slightly, bringing its head closer to the rock.
It was done.
In an instant, arms were outstretched, and Bart’s hands were clinging to the sea-weed. For a moment the boat was checked.
Tom Crawford and Phil Kennedy grasped the sea-weed also; and at that instant, Arthur, seizing the boat’s rope, sprang ashore. His leap jerked the boat, which, caught by the tide, was swept off, leaving masses of sea-weed, torn from the rocks, in the hands of the boys.
A cry of despair arose.