"Can you keep up?" asked the elder Race lad.
"I—I guess—so," was the faint reply.
"We'll be there in a minute now. You'll soon be all right!"
The other did not answer. Valiantly Andy hauled in, until his brother's head was right under the rail.
"I'll take him now," called Andy, as he let go of the tiller, and reached for the lad Frank had saved. With a strong heave Andy got him over the side. He slumped down into the cockpit, unconscious. A moment later Frank clambered on board and quickly untied the rope from his waist.
"Quick, Andy!" he cried. "Mind your helm! We're drifting on the rocks again!"
"Look out for this lad. I'll steer clear!" yelled his brother in reply, as he sprang back the tiller, after hoisting the sail.
Frank lifted the unconscious form in his arms, and moved the wounded lad over to a pile of tarpaulins. With all his strength Andy forced over the tiller, for the wind was strong on the sail, and the waves were running high, their salty crests filling the atmosphere with spume, while a fine spray drenched those aboard the Gull.
Suddenly there was a scraping sound, and the little craft shivered from stem to stern.
"The rocks! The rocks! We're on the rocks!" cried Frank, as with blanched face he looked up from where he was kneeling over the silent form of the lad he had rescued from the sea and the gale.