“Hold on and get your rope ready,” said the doctor.
“Will she clear the rocks or no?”
“We shall see. They’ve no oars out. Stay there while I wave again.”
This time it was not in vain. There was a stir in the boat. The red cloak was seen to wave aloft, and a faint cry mingled with the storm.
“Hold on!” cried the doctor; “they see us, thank God. I’ll go on waving.”
Presently they could see one oar put out, in an attempt to steer the boat into the cove. But in a moment it was swept away, and she drove on as helplessly as before.
It seemed years while she gradually approached, stern-foremost, now seeming to lurch straight towards the fatal rocks, now to stand clear for the narrow channel. They could distinguish the four passengers at last. She in red sat in the stern looking ahead, holding her little sister at her side. The two lads in the middle were baling out wildly, pausing every now and then to turn white faces landward, but returning at once to their task. And indeed the boat sat so low in the water that it was a miracle how she floated at all.
Armstrong stood up, his friend holding him, and waved his coil of rope above his head. The signal was read in a moment. The two girls retreated to the middle of the boat to make room for Roger in the stern.
On and on they came. For an instant it seemed as if nothing could save them, for an ugly cross wave hurled them straight towards the rocks. But the next righted them as suddenly, lifting them high on its crest and dashing them headlong towards the one spot where help awaited them.
Before they rose again a deft cast from Armstrong had sent the rope across the bows within Roger’s reach, while the doctor, with the other end lashed round his body, was running at full speed towards the calmer water of the cove.