“I—I’m afraid.”
A massive green billow flung on her a crest like a cartload of paving-stones, and sent her spinning, bewildered. Winfield just heard her moan:
“I give up.”
He clutched her sleeve as she drooped under the petty wave that succeeded. He tried to remember what the books and articles said, but he had never saved anybody and he was only an ordinary swimmer himself.
He swam on his side, reaching out with one hand and dragging her with the other. But helplessly he kicked her delicate body and she floated face downward. He turned on his back and, suddenly remembering the instructions, put his hands in her armpits and lifted her head above all but the ripple-froth, propelling himself with his feet alone.
But his progress was dismally slow, and he could not see where he was going. The laughter of the bathers and their shrieks as the breakers charged in among them grew fainter. A longshore current was haling them away from the crowds. The life-savers were busy hoisting a big woman into their boat and everybody was watching the rescue. Nobody had missed Sheila. Her own father and mother were whooping like youngsters in the surf.
Winfield twisted his head and tried to make out his course, but his dim eyes could not see so far without the glasses he had left at the boat-house; and the light on the water was blinding.
He was tired and dismayed. He rested for a while, then struck out till he must rest again. At last he spoke to her: “Sheila.”
“Yes, dear.”
“You’ll have to help me. I can’t see far enough.”