Nearer, nearer it came; and now he could hear the steady click of oars.
Again encouraging cries reached him.
"Great Scott! Jim Havens and Phil Levins," was the thought that flashed through Dick Travers' mind.
Two oarsmen were rowing desperately, and, aided by the current, their rowboat shot quickly ahead. As it loomed close above him, the figures of the mountain boys vaguely reminded Dick of giants.
A wave larger than the rest was bearing down upon him, and in a moment he would be buried beneath its foaming crest. Once more he summoned his strength—he knew it would be the final effort.
Just as that terrifying line of white rose before his eyes, he felt a strong hand grip his collar; he was conscious of seeing indistinct forms before him, of hearing voices and of helping to lift Tom Clifton out of the water—then a darkness obscured his vision.
When he opened his eyes again, Jim Havens and Phil Levins were gazing eagerly in his face.
"He's all right," came from Havens. Then Dick saw that he was lying amidst tall grasses, and that Tommy Clifton, with a dazed expression, was sitting propped up against a rock.
"My," he whispered; "that was a narrow escape. I——"
"Quick—tell us how you got into the water," said Havens, excitedly. "Where did your boat get to?"