A cheer on right and left told that others were being rescued. Then it became known who the wrecked ones were.
“It’s the Evening Star!” exclaimed one.
“Poor David!” said another.
Then the cry was raised, “Have ’ee got little Billy?”
“Ay, here he comes!” shouted a strange voice.
It was that of the youth of the ulster, who now stood waist-deep eagerly stretching out his hands towards an object with which the wild waves seemed to sport lovingly. It was indeed little Billy, his eyes closed, his face white, and his curly yellow hair tossing in the foam, but he made no effort to save himself; evidently the force of the sea and perhaps the cold had been too much for his slight frame to bear.
Twice did the young man make a grasp and miss him. To go deeper in would have perhaps insured his own destruction. The third time he succeeded in catching the boy’s hair; the men on shore hauled them in, and soon little Billy lay on the beach surrounded by anxious fishermen.
“Come, mates,” said one, in a deep voice, “let’s carry him to his mother.”
“Not so,” said the young man who had rescued Billy, and who had only lain still for a moment where he had fallen to recover breath. “Let him lie. Undo his necktie, one of you.”
While he spoke he was busy making a tight roll of his own coat which he immediately placed under the shoulders of Billy, and proceeded at once to attempt to restore breathing by one of the methods of resuscitating the drowned.