All this while, owing to a slight veering of the wind, Atherton was swimming, not towards the shore, but almost down stream. He wondered faintly why his feet had not yet touched the mud. More than once he thrust his legs down to their fullest extent, hoping to find something offering more resistance than water, but each time his hopes were not realised.
He was momentarily growing weaker. His movements were little more than mechanical, yet not for one instant did he think of abandoning his burden to save himself. His clothing seemed to hang about his limbs like lead. Ofttimes he had practised swimming in trousers, shirt and socks—for one of the Scouts' swimming tests is to cover fifty yards thus attired; but he had already covered more than four times that distance, while, in addition, he was heavily handicapped by having to tow another person.
Presently a dull throbbing fell upon the Scout's ears.
"A steamboat," he muttered. "Wonder if she'll come this way."
And expending a considerable amount of his sorely tried breath he shouted for aid. A sharp blast upon a steam-whistle was the response, while a hoarse voice bawled, "Where are you, my man?"
"Here," replied Atherton vaguely, for owing to the mist the direction in which the sound came from was quite unable to be located.
Fortunately the steamboat was heading almost down upon the nearly exhausted lad. Her bows, magnified out of all proportion, loomed through the misty atmosphere.
"Stop her!" shouted the coxswain to the engineer, then, "Stand by with your boathook, Wilson."
Losing way, the boat—one of the Metropolitan Police launches—was brought close alongside the rescuer and the rescued. The bowman, finding the lad within arm's length, dropped his boathook, and leaning over the gunwale, grasped Atherton by the shoulder. The coxswain came to his aid, and the victim of the outrage was hauled into safety.