The next minute he felt a sickening swirling sensation and realized
that he was in the whirlpool's death-grip at last.

Faster and faster the boy was hurried in ever decreasing circles.
Dizzy, half-choked with water, blinded and almost exhausted Harry,
with the tenacity of a bull dog, still clung tenaciously to the one
idea:

"Try-and-make-the-rock. Try-and-make-the-rock."

Suddenly, he was flung against a hard substance. With outstretched
fingers he clutched at the slimy surface as of what he realized was
the end of his journey at last. The great stone was covered with
slimy weed, however, and his grasping fingers refused to clutch at
any friendly niche in its surface.

With a despairing cry the boy was being swept in to the terrible mouth
of the pool when he felt himself seized and pulled up out of the grip
of the torrent. He knew no more till he opened his eyes and found
Frank by his side. Both boys were on the rock--sitting on it in two
inches or more of water. Fortunately in that climate the water was
not so chilly as to cause discomfort, but this was about the only
crumb of satisfaction the situation held for them.

"Well done, old fellow," said Frank as Harry opened his eyes. "You
had a narrow escape, though."

Harry could only look at his brother gratefully. How deep was his
debt of gratitude to him both boys realized without their talking of
it.