Sampson picked them up, and, whether or not it came from temper, threw them from where he stood, above and beyond the rail; but the fifth struck the rail, and fell back to the deck. He advanced and threw it over.
"Carry the other one," said Denman, and Sampson lifted it up. It was a low, skeleton rail, and, as the big man hobbled toward it, somehow—neither he nor Denman ever knew how—his foot slipped, and he and the box went overboard together. The box floated, but when Sampson came to the surface it was out of his reach.
"Help!" he gurgled. "I can't swim."
Without a thought, Denman laid his pistol on the deck, shed his coat, and dove overboard, reaching the struggling man in three strokes.
"Keep still," he commanded, as he got behind and secured a light but secure grip on Sampson's hair. "Tread water if you can, but don't struggle. I'll tow you back to the boat."
But, though Sampson grew quiet and Denman succeeded in reaching the dark, steel side, there was nothing to catch hold of—not a trailing rope, nor eyebolt, nor even the open deadlights, for they were high out of reach. The crew were locked in the forecastle, and there was only Florrie. There was no wind, and only the long, heaving ground swell, which rolled the boat slightly, but not enough to bring those tantalizing deadlights within reach; and at last, at the sound of dishes rattling in the galley, Denman called out.
"Florrie!" he shouted. "Florrie, come on deck. Throw a rope over. Florrie—oh, Florrie!"
CHAPTER XV
She came hurriedly, and peered over the rail with a startled, frightened expression. Then she screamed.
"Can you see any ropes lying on deck, Florrie?" called Denman. "If you can, throw one over."