Gently, deliberately, with the utmost care, Thurstane straightened himself until he had lifted the bow of the boat clear of the current.
"Now I'll hoist," said the skipper. "You turn her slowly—jest the least mite. Don't capsize her."
It was a Herculean struggle. There was still a ponderous weight of water in the boat. The slight frame sagged and the flexible siding bulged. Glover with difficulty kept his feet, and he could only lift the stern very slightly.
"You can't do it," decided Thurstane. "Don't wear yourself out trying it. Hold steady where you are, while I let down."
When the boat was restored to its level it floated higher than before, for some of the water had drained out.
"Now lift slowly," directed Thurstane. "Slow and sure. She'll clear little by little."
A quiet, steady lift, lasting perhaps two or three minutes, brought the floor of the boat to the surface of the current.
"It's wearing," said the lieutenant, cheering his worried fellow-laborer with a smile. "Stand steady for a minute and try to rest. You, Sweeny, move in toward the bank. Hold on to your boat like the devil. If the water deepens, sing out."
Sweeny, gripping his lariat desperately, commenced a staggering march over the cobble-stone bottom, his anxious nose pointed toward a beach of bowlders beneath the southern precipice.
"Now then," said Thurstane to Glover, "we must get her on our heads and follow Sweeny. Are you ready? Up with her!"