As he spoke a grizzled seaman rushed up to him.
“That anchor’s slippin’ ag’in!” he bellowed through the noise of the storm. “I can’t put sand on fast enough to hold it!”
“Then I’ll have some one help you!” cried the captain. “Here, Si Watson! You git back there and help Jim pile sand on that anchor. It mustn’t be allowed to pull out—do you understand? It mustn’t pull out if—if you have to—sit on it!”
“Aye—aye, sir,” was the answer, and the two men ran back to where the anchor was buried in the beach, to pile the sand on with the shovels provided for that purpose.
“Now one more pull, and we’ll have ’em safe!” yelled the captain a little later, and with a mighty haul his men bent to their task.
“There they come through the last line of surf!” yelled Joe, pointing to the buoy containing the two shipwrecked persons.
“If only the rope holds,” murmured his chum.
Even as he spoke there came a cry from the two men who had been sent to watch that the anchor in the sand did not drag.
“It’s coming! It’s coming out!” shouted one of them.
“Sit on it! Hold it down!” yelled the captain. “Into the water after ’em, boys! Come on, ye old seadogs!”