“It’s the wind off the point,” she breathed. “It’s taking it out to sea. It—it’s going to be a battle, a real scrap.”
Once more she struck out with the powerful stroke which carries one far but draws heavily upon his emergency fund of energy.
For three full moments she battled the waves; then, all but breathless, she slipped over on her back to do the dead man’s float.
“Just for a few seconds. Got to save my strength, but I can’t waste time.”
Now for the first time she realized that there was a possibility that she would lose this fight. The realization of what it meant if she did lose, swept over her and left her cold and numb. To go back was impossible; the wind and waves were too strong for that. To fail to reach the boat meant death.
Turning back again into swimming position, she struck out once more. But this time it was not the crawl. That cost too much. With an easy, hand-over-hand swing which taxed the reserve forces little more than floating, she set her teeth hard, resolved slowly but surely to win her way to the boat and to safety.
Moments passed. Long, agonizing moments.
Lucile on the shore, by the gleam of a flare of lightning, caught now and then a glimpse of the swimmer. Little by little she became conscious of the real situation. When it dawned upon her that Florence was in real peril, she thought of rushing to the cottage and calling to her assistance any who might be there. Then she looked at the bundle of clothing in her arms and flushed.
“She’d never forgive me,” she whispered.
Florence, still battling, felt the spray break over her, but still kept on the even swing. Now and again, high on the crest of a wave, she saw the boat. She was cheered by the fact that each time it appeared to loom a little larger.