It had not been the lad’s purpose to follow Sam Hardy’s instructions to the letter.
He had not intended to allow himself to be dragged through the waves at risk of weighting down his comrade, but proposed to strike out for himself; and the surfman must have feared some such intention, for, fastening his teeth in the sleeve of Benny’s shirt, he held on as a dog might have done.
The boy understood that Hardy could swim more easily if he held himself up by clutching the latter’s shirt collar, and as soon as he did this the surfman released his hold.
So low on the surface of the water were the two, it was impossible to gain any idea of where the life savers or the hulk might be.
They were alone amid those angry, seething waters, and it was not reasonable to suppose their comrades could see them.
Had he been dependent upon his own exertions, Benny must speedily have succumbed to the violent buffeting of the waves; but Sam Hardy shielded the lad whenever it was possible, in addition to dragging him past the frowning rocks, and finally, after it seemed to the lad as if half the night had been spent, they had arrived at a cove which offered a comparatively safe landing-place.
“Stand up as soon as your feet touch bottom, and run for dear life,” Hardy said, speaking for the first time since they had flung themselves into the waves, and the words were no more than uttered when Benny was able to obey.
Hand in hand the two fled from the raging waters, only to be overtaken and hurled back at the very moment when it seemed as if a place of safety had been gained, and then came another wearying, disheartening conflict with the waves, during which Benny nearly lost his courage.
Once more it was possible to gain a foothold; once more they raced with death, and this time the venture was successful. The two gained the pebbly shore above the water-line, so sorely beaten and fatigued that speech or movement was impossible until after a rest of several minutes.
Then Sam asked solicitously: