At last the line stopped uncoiling, and Anderson knew that the shot had landed somewhere. Minutes of suspense passed. Nothing happened. The rope spanned the tossing waves, but no answering tugs conveyed messages from the sailors to the waiting surfmen.
“What ails ’em?” muttered Larry Flynn impatiently “Are they all dead or drunk or have we——?”
“Shut up, Larry!” came the command. “Ah, there she goes now!”
Hugh and Chester sprang forward.
“The line’s moving!” cried Chester.
“Quit hoppin’ around like a sand-flea!” Larry admonished him severely. “Don’t make so much noise! They can’t hear ye, boy.”
Indeed, as Chester had declared, the line began to slip through Anderson’s fingers and move seaward. Those on shore knew that it had been found and that its use was understood; that is, that this line carried out by the projectile served merely to drag out a heavier rope, on which was run a sort of trolley carrying a breeches-buoy.
And now the eight mariners, securing the line, made the end of the strong rope fast to the mast well above the reach of the waves, and the surfmen wound their end firmly around the deeply buried sand-anchor. Wading out a little way, Bowers placed an inverted V-shaped crotch under the rope, holding it above water on that end. When this had been done, as much of the slack was taken up as possible, and the vessel was connected with the beach by a kind of suspension bridge.
Willing arms then hauled out the buoy along that suspended line.
Presently they saw a sailor climb into the stout canvas breeches of the buoy, and felt the tug on the whip-line that told them the rescue had begun. All together, with a will, they pulled on the line. Carrying its human burden, the buoy rolled along the hawser, swinging in the wind, now and then dipping the man in the crests of the waves.