“Courage!” shouted Bar to Sibyl; “there’s help coming.”
“Courage, Effie,” murmured George Brayton.
“And you, too,” she said, in reply. “Oh, you must keep up! For my sake!”
“For yours? Then, indeed, I will.”
They needed whatever encouragement and strength they could get all around before the punt arrived, but then Zeb Fuller and Hy Allen seemed to make nothing at all of pulling in the girls, one after the other. In fact, Brayton was compelled to say:
“Gently, now, boys,” more than once, by way of moderating their somewhat headlong strength and eagerness.
Bar had been on hand to help, but now he swam back to the Sibyl and clambered in.
That unlucky craft was beginning to be a little less water-logged, and Zeb Fuller tossed over a big, rusty tin basin, with the aid of which the work went on tenfold more rapidly.
“Saved, thank God!” exclaimed George Brayton, as he sank, dripping and exhausted, on a seat of the punt, opposite to Effie and his sister.
Neither of them said a word aloud, but there was no doubt they were saying the same thing in their hearts.