Something white showed on the top of a sea to leeward and sank in a hollow. He sank with it, and when he rose again it was nearer.
"Boat ahoy!" he sang out. "Boat ahoy!—this way—port a little—steady."
He swam as he could, cumbered by the life-buoy, and with every heaving sea the boat came nearer. At last he recognized it—the ship's dinghy; and it was being pulled into the teeth of that forceful wind and sea by a single rower—a slight figure in yellow.
"It's Freda," he exclaimed; and then, in a shout: "This way, Miss Folsom—a little farther."
She turned, nodded, and pulled the boat up to him. He seized the gunwale, and she took in the oars.
"Can you climb in alone, John?" she asked in an even voice—as even as though she were asking him to have more tea. "Wait a little,—I am tired,—and I will help you."
She was ever calm and dispassionate, but he wondered at her now; yet he would not be outdone.
"I'll climb over the stern, Freda, so as not to capsize you. Better go forward to balance my weight."
She did so. He pulled himself to the stern, slipped the life-buoy over his head and into the boat, then, by a mighty exercise of all his strength, vaulted aboard with seeming ease and sat down on a thwart. He felt a strong inclination to laughter and tears, but repressed himself; for masculine hysterics would not do before this young woman. She came aft to the next thwart, and when he felt steadier he said:
"You have saved my life, Freda; but thanks are idle now, for your own is in danger. Give me the oars. We must get back to the ship."