Yes, that was the sound of the bell hung from within the cage-like framework surrounding the buoy, which is moored on the edge of the shoal skirting the fairway leading into Portsmouth Harbour.
The broken water was rocking it to and fro; and, with every lurch the buoy made, this bell gave out a doleful knell as if ringing away the passing soul of some dead sailor gone to his last account.
Perchance it was tolling for ‘Gyp’ and me!
This thought flashed through me for a second; but the next second I dismissed it as a craven fear, my courage returning to me.
I set my teeth, determined to fight it out to the end, when, if need be, I should die bravely.
“Hurrah, ‘Gyp,’ whilst there’s life there’s hope!” I shouted, as much to encourage the poor dog as myself, turning on my side and cuddling him well up on my chest with my right arm to keep his head out of the water, while I struck out with all my strength with my left towards the buoy, now within a stone’s throw, the tide gradually sweeping us near it in spite of the wind and sea. “There’s no reason why the Spit Buoy shouldn’t rescue us, the same as it did father!”
I believe ‘Gyp’ understood what I said, for I declare I felt his little stump tail wag against my arm, and he licked my cheek that was nearest, being otherwise too exhausted to give expression to his emotion by bark or whine.
We did it too.
After a stiff swim, though but such a short distance, I clutched hold of a becket attached to the side of the buoy; and then, drawing myself up out of the water, I landed ‘Gyp’ inside our refuge, climbing in after him myself.