"I'll die game, if I do die," he kept repeating to himself.
At last the pull from beneath seemed to be lessening a little. There was not the same terrific force tugging at his feet. Steve kicked out and the effort, he thought, raised him a little.
Thus encouraged he began kicking with all his strength, treading water and working his hands as fast as he could. There could be no doubt about it now. He was shooting toward the top at a good speed.
Suddenly he gave a great gasp as he felt the warm, damp air strike his face. His lungs were almost at the bursting point, and he felt that he could not have held his breath a second longer.
Steve lay over on the water, on his back, moving his hands listlessly to help keep him afloat. Thus far he had had no thought of the ship to which he belonged. He was too much exhausted to do more than lie still, which he did, drawing in long, deep breaths of the fresh air. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet to Steve Rush and he felt an overpowering desire to go to sleep.
All at once he threw himself over on his stomach as the long, shrill blast of a steamer's whistle smote his ears.
"It's the 'Wanderer'!" he cried. "And they must be miles away."
The ship was not very far away. It was the blanket of fog that had smothered the sound of the whistle and made it seem many miles off to port of him.
Rush raised his voice and shouted. His voice, of course, carried for a very short distance, for the same reason that had made the ship's whistle sound a long way off. Again and again did he shout, but not a response did he get, save the long wail of the siren. Not a light was to be seen anywhere, nor were there any signs of the other men who had been in the life-boat with him at the time it was lifted from the water and turned bottom side up.