Once more his voice sounded in their ears.
“Och, boys!” cried he, “don’t thry to come back. It’s no use whatever. Lave me to my fate, an’ save yersels! The tide’s ’ard against ye. Turn, an’ follow it, as I tell ye. It’ll carry ye safe to the shore; an’ if I’m washed afther ye, bury me on the bache. Farewell, brave boys, farewell!”
To the individuals thus apostrophised it was a sorrowful adieu; and, could they have done anything to save the sailor, there was not one of the three who would not have risked his life over and over again. But all were impressed with the hopelessness of rendering any succour; and under the still further discouragement caused by another huge wave, that came swelling up under their chins, they turned simultaneously in the water; and, taking the tidal current for their guide, swam with all their strength towards the shore.
Chapter Eight.
Safe ashore.
The swim proved shorter than any of them had anticipated. They had scarce made half a mile across the bay, when Terence, who was the worst swimmer of the three, and who had been allowing his legs to droop, struck his toes against something more substantial than salt water.
“I’ faith!” gasped he, with exhausted breath, “I think I’ve touched bottom. Blessed be the Virgin, I have!” he continued, at the same time standing erect, with head and shoulders above the surface of the water.
“All right!” cried Harry, imitating the upright attitude of the young Hibernian. “Bottom it must be, and bottom it is. Thank God for it!”