"It is a bit of wreckage or a clump of seaweed," the captain agreed after a brief survey. "It's drifting in all right, but it's going to miss the island by a good hundred yards."
The two suspended work while they watched the drifting object slowly near their island.
"It looks like a hatch with something like a stack atop of it," he observed to the captain as the object drew close.
"Hit's a man or 'ooman atop ob hit," cried Chris, whose eyes were keener than the old sailor's. "He's layin' plum still, jes' like he was dead."
Closer approach of the object convinced the captain that the little negro was correct. There was beyond doubt a motionless body lying on the low floating hatch. It was evident too that the hatch with its burden would pass the island at a distance of at least one hundred and fifty yards. To venture out and attempt to tow it in was to assume a terrible risk. The water between it and the island was raging and tossing over dozens of dangerous hidden rocks. Only the strongest swimmer would have the slightest chance of success, and, even should he succeed, it might be to find that he had risked his life to rescue a corpse. But the ocean breeds in its followers a brotherhood that leads them to deeds of quiet heroism. They never know when they may be in need of a rescuing hand and it is seldom that one turns aside from the rendering of service, no matter how dangerous it may be to himself.
When the hatch with its burden was nearly abreast of the island Chris began to strip off his clothes, but the Captain stopped him.
"You're still too weak to attempt it, lad," he declared. "You couldn't make it thar an' back, I reckon I can fight it out all right. I've mighty nigh got back all my strength."
Hastily stripping off the pants and shirt in which he was clothed, the old sailor slipped off into the water and struck out for the wreckage with long steady strokes, warily avoiding the foaming spots which marked the positions of the larger rocks. The swim was not difficult for so experienced a swimmer. The struggle would come when he attempted to return with his burden. In a few minutes, he reached the wreckage and, resting his hand upon the hatch gazed down at the burden it bore. He saw a man, apparently about forty years of age, attired in rough seaman's garb, his face bronzed and seamed from long years of exposure to wind and weather. The stranger was lying flat on his back on the hatch, his legs dangling over the end. A rope passed around his body and under the wood work prevented the larger seas from washing him off his frail support. He was unconscious and the captain reached over and placed his ear close to his chest. He could detect a faint beating of the heart. It was slow and feeble but still it was beating,—the man was alive.
Once satisfied of this fact, the old sailor quickly shifted to the end of the hatch, and, resting one hand upon it, and striking out with the other hand and both feet, strove to force it back to the island. He had not accomplished half the distance with his burden when he saw that he could not hope to succeed. The tide was slowly but surely sweeping him in past the island direct for the mainland. Still, he battled desperately on, swimming with all his strength. Suddenly the little raft seemed to move forward with increased speed.
"Take it easy, Massa Cap," sounded Chris' voice close to his elbow. "We can make it togedder all right." The plucky little negro had been quick to see the danger and equally quick to come to the rescue.