“Hold him!” some one cried, and opening their eyes and daring to look about them, the three boys on the deck saw something that was as unexpected as it was welcome.
Fred hung head downward from the yard, a rope twisted tightly around his feet. The same rope that had thrown him from his position was now holding him suspended in the air. But how securely did it hold him? Could it support him until help could come? That was the question.
“Go to him, somebody!” cried Grant in an agonized voice. Even as he spoke a sailor ran swiftly along the deck to the base of the foremast and began to climb rapidly. To those who watched him, however, it seemed as if he progressed at a snail’s pace.
“He’s going to drop!” groaned String.
“Maybe not,” said Pop Sanders, trying to appear cheerful.
“What can he do if he does reach him?” demanded Grant.
“Wait and see,” cautioned Pop.
Higher and higher climbed the sailor. From above Petersen, the man who had accompanied Fred to the top, leaned down and took hold of the rope which was all that kept the unfortunate boy from falling.
“Don’t pull on that,” begged Grant. “It’ll surely come loose.”
The sailor had now approached within a few feet of Fred. A moment later and he was by his side. He made no move to help the boy who hung so perilously out into space. Instead he shouted something to Petersen which could not be heard on the deck below.