“No, no—no time to be lost—now or never,” cried Digby, rushing into the sea just as the wave, having brought the almost senseless lad close to the beach, was about to carry him off again.
Had he hesitated for a moment he would have been too late. He thought not of his own safety. On he rushed. The receding water took him off his legs. He struck out; he was turned heels over head. Still he dashed on. He was within half an arm’s-length of the drowning lad. “Oh, I must have him,” he thought to himself. He sprung on; he caught him by the collar of his jacket. “Haul away,” he sung out.
Marshall and the rest saw that he had got hold of the boy, though they could not hear him speak.
Nothing but death would have made him relinquish that grasp, he felt.
His companions hauled away, and much force was required, for so strong was the reflux of the wave that all his own strength would not have opposed it.
Almost drowned himself, and scarcely sensible, holding tight on to the boy, he at length was caught hold of by his friends, who ran up with him and his burden out of the reach of the waves.
They undid the lad’s collar and handkerchief. He was breathing, but insensible. He was as well dressed as they were, and was certainly not a poor sailor-boy, as Digby had fancied,—not that that would have made any difference, of course.
Easton ran off to call Mr Nugent, while Marshall, Power, and Norton attended to the stranger and Digby.
Meantime, they were anxiously looking out for the other person they had seen in the water. They could just distinguish him, but he had drifted a long way out, and was making no effort to save himself.
Digby very soon came to his senses, as did the boy he had so gallantly rescued. No sooner did the latter open his eyes than he looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, my father, my father; where is he?” He gazed with a countenance expressive of the greatest fear towards the ocean. Then he started up, and would have rushed back into the water, had not Marshall and Digby prevented him.