he gripped it. And he dragged Kathryn to it.

"Hold on!" he cried in her ear. "Jack's gone!"

Though but half conscious, she understood. Her firm, white fingers
gripped the cutting edge of the cockpit rail; she nodded.

Blake struck out again. He had tried to remember where he had seen
Schuyler disappear. Four strokes brought him to the spot; and then he
dove.

Again his hand struck something. Again he pulled, and tugged, and fought.
At length he was at the surface. It was Schuyler. His eyes were closed.

The tide, setting down the sound, was carrying the boat from him; he set
his teeth. He caught Schuyler by the neck of his jersey, over his own
shoulder, bringing his head out of water.

And he struck out, with his free arm, desperately.

It seemed as though he would never make progress. A dead weight, in the
water, is hard to drag. Every ounce of strength that was in his strong,
young body he threw into those long, quivering strokes. He must get to
the boat! He _must_! The shore was too far away.... He stopped for a
minute, treading water. There was no sail in sight. He flattened out in
the water again, breasting it with all his power.

Stroke after stroke he took--stroke after stroke--reaching with strong
right arm, thrusting with strong legs. The boat was no nearer.... He kept
on, doggedly.... He could feel that his strokes were getting weaker; his