"At that!" he shouted, when he found himself on the same level with the man he hoped to rescue. "Take a turn."
Ten feet from him was the unconscious Enrico Jaures. The question now was, how was that intervening space to be bridged?
Kenyon began to sway his legs after the manner of a child on a swing.
"If the rope parts, then it's a case of 'going west' with a vengeance," he soliloquised grimly. "Christopher! Isn't it beastly cold?"
Momentarily the pendulum-like movement increased until Kenneth was able to grip the arm of the unconscious man. As he did so Enrico's belt, that had hitherto prevented him from dropping into space, parted like pack-thread.
With a jerk that nearly wrenched the rescuer's arms from their sockets, the deadweight of the Scorp almost capsized Kenyon out of the bow-line. As it was, he was hanging with his head lower than his feet, holding on with a grip of iron to Jaures' arms. Thus hampered, he realised that it was manifestly impossible to make use of the second bow-line.
"Haul up!" he shouted breathlessly.
"Heavens!" he added. "Can I do it? Can I hold on long enough?"
It was a question that required some answering. The strain on his muscles, coupled with the effect of the unexpected jerk, the numbing cold, and, lastly, his own position, as he hung practically head downwards, all told against him. Even in those moments of peril he found himself thinking he must present a ludicrous sight to the watchers in the airship in the dazzling glare of the searchlight.
"Stick it another half a minute, sir," shouted a voice. "I'll be with you in a brace of shakes."