“We’re a’ richt noo, what-ë-ver,” said Ian with a grunt of satisfaction.
Never before did a self-sufficient boatman have his words more effectually or promptly falsified than on that occasion. The distance between boat and shore at that moment was only a few hundred yards; but the water all the way was deep, and the waves, in consequence, were large and wild. There were great possibilities within the brief space of distance and time that lay before them!
“Tak an oar, Maister Quin, an’ help Rodereek to fend off,” cried the boatman. “Hold ticht to the sheet, sir, an’ pe ready to let co the moment I tell ye. Are ye ready wi’ the halyards, Muster Airchie?”
“All right, Ian,” replied the boy, who stood ready to lower the sail.
They could see that several men were standing on the beach, ready to render assistance, among them Duncan, the butler, and Ivor, the gamekeeper. The latter, who had evidently recovered himself, was standing waist-deep in the foam, as if anxious to grasp the boat when it grounded.
“Ivor is unusually keen to help us to-day,” remarked the laird, with a peculiar look; but no one was sufficiently disengaged to listen to or answer him.
At that critical moment Junkie took it into his unaccountable head to scramble to the fore part of the boat, in order, as he said, to lend a hand with a rope. On reaching the bow he stumbled; the boat plunged heavily, as if to accommodate him, and he went overboard with a suddenly checked yell, that rose high and sharp above the roaring gale!
Of course every man near him sprang to the side and made a wild grasp at him. The gunwale went down, the sea rushed in, and, in a space of time brief as the lightning-flash, all the occupants of the boat were struggling in the waves!
A great cry arose from the shore, and Ivor, plunging into the surf, was seen to breast the billows with the force of a Hercules. In the moment of upsetting, John Barret’s cowardice and scruples vanished. He seized Milly by the arm, and held her up when they rose from the plunge.
And now, for the first time in his life, our hero found the advantage of having trained himself, not only in all manly exercises, but in the noble art of rescuing life from the water. Instead of rising to the wild discovery of helpless ignorance as to what was the best way of using his great strength, he rose with the comfortable knowledge, first, that he was a powerful swimmer, and second, that he knew exactly what to do—at least to attempt. Instead, therefore, of allowing himself to be hugged, and probably drowned, by the girl he loved, he held her off at arm’s length until he managed to grasp her by both arms close to the shoulders, and with her back towards him—treading water while doing so. Then, swimming on his own back, he gently drew her upon his breast, so that her head rested close to his chin. Thus the girl’s face was turned upwards and held well out of the water, and the youth was able to say almost in her ear, “Trust in God, dearest, He will save us!” while he struck out vigorously with his legs. Thus, swimming on his back, he headed for the shore.