"Shore's too far. Can't do it. We can catch the boat."
"The wind's rising, Barry."
"Choose, Sime—shore or boat."
"Shore for me. Choose for yourself. See how she drifts!"
"You can't reach the shore, Sime. Besides, I want my clothes. I'm going for the boat."
"No time to talk. Good-by, Barry."
Sime Hopkins felt a great sob rising as he struck out for the shore, and it was every bit as much on Barry's account as on his own, but he had to choke it down.
"Straight swimming now, and no nonsense. How plainly I can see the city!"
That is, he could see the steeples of it, some two miles from the shore he hoped to reach; and below them, he knew, were the roofs of houses, and under the roofs of two of those houses were Barry Gilmore's mother and his own.
Steadily, regularly, without a motion too much or a pull too hard—for he was thinking very closely what it was best to do in such a case—Sime swam on, until a dull feeling in his arms warned him of coming weariness.