Quickly he was lost to view in the hurly-burly of foam and spray.
With the utmost care did Oliver Trench perform his duty. It required both vigour of hand and delicacy of touch to keep the line right, but it was manipulated by hands whose vigour and touch were intensified by love.
“Ease off!” he cried, looking back impatiently at the strong fellows who held the slack of the line.
The men obeyed so readily that the line ran out too fast and the boy had much ado to check it. Just as he got it sufficiently taut, he felt what seemed to him like two pulls—“haul me in!” Could it be? He was not certain. In an agony of anxiety he held on, and was about to give the signal to haul in, when his father, who watched his every movement, instantly said, “Give him another second or two, Olly.”
Just then there was a strong single pull at the line.
“Pay out!—faster!” shouted Oliver, and, at the same moment he eased off his own feelings in a tremendous sigh of relief.
After that the line ran steadily for a few seconds, and no signals came. Then it ceased to run, and poor Oliver’s fears began to rush in upon him again, but he was speedily relieved by feeling three distinct and vigorous pulls.
“Thank God, he’s safe,” cried the boy. “Now then, pass along the hawser—quick!”
This was done, the light line was attached to a three-inch rope, and the party on the wreck waited anxiously.
“Give it a pull, Olly, by way of signal,” suggested Master Trench.