“Oh, they’ll never save him! Never!” cried the navigating officer with a groan.
Suddenly a second horrified shout went up from bridge and deck. Ned had made a frantic effort to grab the mast on one of his wild swings. At the same instant Sharp appeared to be laying hold of his feet to try and drag him back into the top. Those who had set up that groan of dismay had seen Ned’s feet suddenly slip out of position.
“He’s gone!” cried the captain, half turning away.
Some of the crew shut their eyes. Ned had lost his hold and was doomed either to be drowned,—for in that sea it would have been impossible to launch a boat,—or else to be dashed to atoms on the steel decks of the dreadnought.
But the next instant a glad cry of renewed hope went up. It was a yell, a frantic shout of encouragement and joy.
Ned had somehow managed, by the instinct of self-preservation, to seize a stay, and there he hung, swaying wildly back and forth as the ship rolled, but still gripping it in a firm grasp.
“Can he hang on?”
That was the question that agitated every man who was watching the lad’s plucky battle for life.
“Stick to it, Ned!” cried the sailors encouragingly.
“Hang on, old boy! We’ll help you out of it in a brace of shakes.”