The launch crept nearer and nearer to the strange bit of flotsam. The body of the other castaway was presently brought into view; then, as the sailboat swept alongside, a simultaneous cry of joy came from the trio:
“It’s Nanny!”
The other boy had fallen back, evidently from sheer exhaustion. He half rose again, and cried wildly:
“Help me into the boat, Faraday. Please hurry; I’m nearly dead. Quick!”
“The same old Judson,” muttered Joy. “Always thinking of himself. From the looks of things, he’s not half as bad as Nanny. The poor youngster is wounded. There’s blood all over his face and head.”
“Keep up your spirits,” cheerily called out Clif. “We’ll have you with us in a jiffy. Stand by, fellows. Steady! that’s it. Now, Judson, give us a hand with Nanny.”
But Greene cast off the rope binding him to the spar—evidently a fragment of some wrecked mast—and unceremoniously scrambled over the launch’s gunwale.
“Thank God!” he gasped, sinking into the bottom. “I thought I’d never see daylight again.”
“Still the same old Judson,” muttered Joy again, assisting Clif and Trolley to transfer Nanny’s insensible form to the launch.