Seconds passed, before the full, terrible significance of his words
filtered into my brain.

"Do you mean to say," I roared, "that you are not going to swim for that
boat?"

"Certainly I do mean to say it," he replied stiffly. "Let me have your
fountain pen, Griggs."

I took one glance at the boat. I took another at Hawkins. Then I gripped
him about the waist and threw my whole soul into the task of pitching him
overboard.

Hawkins, as I have said, is heavier than I. He puffed and strained and
pulled and hauled at me, swearing like a trooper the while. And neither
of us budged an inch.

The cutter came nearer, nearer, always nearer. Thirty seconds more and we
should shoot by it forever. The thought of losing this chance of rescue
almost maddened me.

I had just gathered all my strength for one last heave when the middle
of my back experienced the most excruciating pain it has ever known.
Something seemed to lift me clear of the launch, with Hawkins in my arms;
I heard a dull report from somewhere, and then we dropped together,
right through the surface of the sparkling Atlantic Ocean!

Hawkins was picked up first. When I came to the surface, two dark-skinned
sailormen were dragging him in, struggling and cursing and pointing wildly