“Where’s the line?” he asked. “There’s a man out there. Look out for Molly.”
At that moment Mr. Grant and Carline appeared through the fog. Already Peter was securing one end of the rope round his waist.
“Look after Molly,” he reiterated. “She’ll be after me if you don’t.” And, handing the coiled portion of the rope to Mr. Grant and Brandon, Craddock rushed into the water.
For the first ten yards his progress was hastened by the undertow. Masses of milk-white foam mingled with moving sand were swirling round his legs and urging him on. He could see that the succeeding breaker would be upon him before he could get into deeper water. If it caught him squarely it would hurl him like a stone upon the beach, and probably batter the breath from his body.
The crest towered high above his head. It was almost upon him. But Peter kept a cool head. As the wave broke, he dived into it, felt himself being borne backwards, was conscious of his feet coming in contact with the ground. He wanted to kick, to leap until his head appeared above the surging torrent. He felt he could keep his breath no longer.
At last he broke surface and found himself beyond the breaker. He struck out vigorously. Found himself impeded.
“Pay out more line, you fellows!” he shouted.
He might well have saved his breath, for his voice was inaudible in the roar of the surf. It wasn’t that Brandon had neglected to give more scope to the line; it was the drag of the water against it.
There was no sign of the man he was risking his life to save. Another wave came up, foaming ready to break. Peter surmounted it just before the angry crest toppled over. As he did so something was thrown against his side—something that felt like a sack of saturated sawdust.