"I'll have to tow her," decided the swimmer. "It's a tough proposition; and isn't the water beastly nippy?"
Groping for the painter, Biggs started to swim shorewards. The waterlogged boat responded ungraciously—in fact, so slowly that the swimmer was beginning to doubt his powers of endurance.
"Stick it!" shouted Kaye encouragingly. "You're moving her. Shall we come out and give a hand?"
Biggs shook his head. He could not trust himself to shout a reply. He wanted every ounce of breath to carry him through the ordeal.
Yet he was obviously tiring. The numbing cold and the prolonged immersion were beginning to tell.
"By Jove! he'll never do it," exclaimed Derek, who had already removed his boots and tunic. "We'll have to go in after him."
Hurriedly the two chums threw off their clothes, and plunged in to the assistance of their comrade. They were only just in time, for although Biggs had succeeded in towing the boat to within twenty-five yards of the shore, he was on the point of being vanquished by the cold water.
Comparatively fresh, Derek assisted Biggs to the shore, then, returning, swam to the stern of the whaler, while Kaye struck out with the painter. Under the combined action the boat was moved slightly faster, and presently, to the cadets' intense satisfaction, her fore-foot grounded on the soft sand.
"Can't get her any higher," declared Derek breathlessly.
"Let's lift these fellows out."