The crazy little craft gave vent to a series of sharp sput-sput-sputs. Then suddenly it went dead; the light disappeared. Night, dark and silent as the grave, hung over all.
“We—we frightened him,” Tillie gasped. “He—he—went over. He may be hurt, may drown. We must save him!”
“How?”
“Swim.” Tillie was kicking off her shoes.
Florence followed her example. Together they entered the chilling water to begin one more long swim, to the spot where the strange little motor boat had last been seen.
“He’s hurt,” Tillie panted between strokes, “or he’d yell for help.”
Florence thought this probable, and her heart chilled. In their eagerness for deliverance, had they caused another to lose his life? She redoubled her efforts.
A dark bulk, lying close to the water, appeared before them.
“The boat,” thought Florence, “it did not sink. There is hope.”
She was right. As they reached the overturned boat, they found the Erie boy, in a semi-conscious condition and with a bad cut on his temple, clinging feebly to the stern.