But these cries, meant to encourage Ned, were not practical of execution. It was manifestly impossible to reach him. His salvation lay in his own hands and he must work it out alone.
Herc had, by this time, reached the top and now hung over the rail in an agony of apprehension. There hung his comrade, twenty feet below him, dangling high above the decks on a slender wire stay and he was as powerless to aid him as if he had been a hundred miles away. But he shouted encouragement.
Suddenly there came a voice at his back. It was Sharp.
“He’s a goner for sure,” he muttered indifferently.
Herc faced around on him like a thunderbolt. His red hair bristled like the hackles on an angry dog.
“Say that again, will you?” he demanded fiercely, his freckled fists clenching.
“I only said that there wasn’t a chance for him to get away with it,” rejoined Sharp, a leer spreading over his countenance. “He stands no more chance of being saved than a snowball in a furnace.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, just let me tell you one thing, Ned Strong has got out of worse scrapes than the one he’s in right now. If it’s humanly possible, he’ll save himself yet, in spite of such croakers as you.”
Sharp slunk away before Herc’s broadside. He could not meet the other’s eyes.
“I did all I could to keep him from falling, but I couldn’t get him in,” he muttered.