Protesting at the boy’s recklessness, he crawled forward and stood ready to grasp the man if he were clinging to the life-buoy or yet swimming on the surface of the angry water.
“Can you see the buoy, sir?” shouted O’Neil. “It’s broad off the starboard bow.”
“I see it,” shouted back Phil, as he threw the stern to port and bore down on the two flames still burning brightly amid the tempest.
“Stand by to ‘peak your oars.’ Peak!” he shouted to the crew as the boat with a rush was brought around and headed up to the buoy.
“He’s there, boys,” cried O’Neil, joyously, as he leaned far out and grasped a limp, bedraggled figure clinging to the life-buoy. The men dropped the handles of their oars between their feet, raising the blades clear of the passing waves.
“In you come, my hearty,” cried the coxswain, as his arms encircled the half-drowned man, and he lifted him from the hungry sea to safety in the life-boat.
Searchlights were now playing from the battle-ship. One beam of light held steadily on the struggling boat, while the others swept fretfully about as if they sought to pierce the dark water.
As the midshipman struggled manfully at the steering oar, holding the bow of the boat up against the impact of the powerful seas, Lazar’s words seemed to ring in his ears like a knell.
Fear clutched at his heart that he might by his disobedience send these brave men to a watery grave.
As long as the oarsmen could give the boat headway, he felt confident all would go well, but some of the men were exhausted, and the sea was ever increasing.