Ridding himself of his clothes, Clem swam more easily, but he felt the chill of the water keenly. Owing to the choppy back lash of the waves, it was impossible to float. He had to swim continually to hold himself up.
“Hang on to the cork, ye blamed fool!” said Tom.
“I will, if I need to. I’m all right.”
The horn was sounding no longer!
Clem knew that their situation was desperate in the extreme. Which way the island lay, no one could tell. They were in a spot reached only by an occasional fishing boat. The fog would not lift before noon. Unless Ed Davis found them by chance, they could not both last—the preserver would only keep one man up.
Clem found himself becoming weakened by that continual struggle.
How long he swam beside Tom, he never knew. It seemed like days. He swam now on his side, now on his back. Change position as he might, however, he could not get away from the choppy, short seas. The sound of the foghorn came to them no more, and Clem forbore to shout, knowing the effort useless unless Ed Davis came close by them.
“How are you, Tom?” he said, resting on the preserver. A wave broke over them. Clem hastily drew away, yet with an inward groan.
“All right,” responded Tom, lying nobly. “Catch on here.”
Clem smiled a little. The faintness of the other’s voice had told him all he wanted to know. Tom was incapable of any exertion.