“Look!” he cried. “There! [It’s a boat bottom-up with a man clinging to it!] Can you see?”
“Yes,” they answered, and for a moment they were silent while the wind and rain roared outside and the capsized boat tossed heavily between the waves.
“The wind will drive him on shore if he can hold on,” said Roy. But there was little conviction in his tones.
“Not with that current,” answered Chub hoarsely. “He’s going down-stream fast. When I first saw him he was fifty yards further up.”
“Haven’t you a boat?” demanded Dick eagerly of Mr. Cole.
“Yes,” replied that gentleman calmly and thoughtfully, “but it’s just a cockle-shell and hard to row. There’s no use in thinking of that.”
“But we can’t let him drown!” cried Chub.
“No,” answered the artist. “We can’t do that. One of you look in the locker in the engine-room and bring me the coil of rope you’ll find there.”
Roy darted away in obedience.
“What are you going to do?” asked Dick.