“I reckon they can help one another,” said Jane grimly.
Just as one victim would stagger to his feet, another would clutch wildly at his legs and over he would go. In the midst of this confusion another cry rang out shrill and sharp above the rush of the waters and the squeals of those being “boiled.”
“Help! Oh, help! I’m giving out!”
Jane sprang to her feet. In her amusement over the laughable predicament of the unwary she had forgotten all about Lorna. Now she could plainly see that the girl was in distress. Evidently she had tried to come in to shore and was being carried out by the undertow. She had lost her head and was struggling wildly. For a moment her head with the gay cap and handkerchief went under, a huge wave breaking over her.
Jane dived through the breakers. She was conscious of the fact that the father was near her. He had turned and walked back towards the beach, arriving near the friendly dune just as his daughter’s cry for help rang out.
“My God! It’s Lorna!” he gasped. “Here!” he cried, grabbing one of the struggling young men out of the breakers just as he was being thrown up on the sands by a playful wave. “Here, you! My daughter is drowning!”
“So am I!” gasped the chinless youth.
“You can swim—go get her! Get her man! I can’t swim a stroke.”
The frantic father was rushing up and down like a raging lion. By that time, all of the party had come out of the boiling with no bones broken but with rueful countenances.