It was almost inaudible, yet Westy knew the cry to be Rip’s. It sounded
exhausted, too, so there was no time to be lost!
Kicking off his heavy shoes, he dove straight in the water, striking it
without hardly a ripple. He struck out with an overhand stroke and
gained splendidly at the offset when suddenly he felt something pulling
at his legs and had all he could do to keep himself up. Each time he
attempted to go ahead, just that much he was pulled back again.
Westy was an excellent swimmer and had many experiences with the
undertow in the waters of the Atlantic. He knew just how to buck the
tide and when not to. But this was different; a new state of affairs
entirely, and not much headway could be gained.
Every few feet he would be almost sucked under by this impetuous thing
that lay hidden beneath the calm and gleaming surface. It was almost
incredible that Nature could be so subtle as to entice the poor, weak
human being into such a trap by virtue of its warm, soothing waters.
However, for another short distance it seemed he was granted a respite
and had shaken himself free of it, and in his joy he raised his head and
called to Rip a few words of comfort.
All he could see of the trapped boy was his head and shoulders and his
arms clasping the tree in a tight grasp. Rip didn’t answer him.
“Do you hear, old boy?” Westy called again. “I’m on the way at last!”
Westy kept on and realized that Rip’s exhaustion was pretty complete
when it prevented him answering. And then again he felt the tugging at
his legs. This time it was worse, much worse than before, and he
realized that it was going to take all his strength to make it.
His arms were beginning to ache as the result of his body dragging its
weight upon them. But with determined effort he at last got within
twenty feet or so of Rip and the tree.
In the glimpses he got of the boy’s face as it partially submerged and
then reappeared with the terrific undercurrent, he saw that it was of a
death-like pallor.
“Rip, it’s not much longer. Try and hold on a minute!”
Rip turned his head slowly, never loosening his grasp on the tree, and a
look of pathetic hopelessness was in his tired eyes.
“You can’t make it, Wes!” he called, his voice just above a whisper.
“It’s a regular whirlpool here within ten feet of me. I’m so tired, but
it’s my own fault!”
“Only a second now, kid!” Westy’s voice was so cheerful, but he was
thinking: “Huh! About ten feet, is it?” He didn’t see how he was going
to make it, either. His arms were so cramped, and if it was a whirlpool
there.... He stopped about twelve feet from Rip and rested a precious
second, swinging one arm and then the other to revive his circulation.
Gauging the distance in his mind’s eye, he took a plunge and was whirled
like a top through the water, coming up directly alongside of the tree
twelve feet or so nearer to the cliff than Rip was and out of the worst
of the vortex.
Swinging his body with all his strength, he managed to get one leg over
the tree trunk and pulled the rest over gradually. Dragging himself
forward, he reached the end, where the exhausted boy encircled the tree
with his arms.
As he leaned forward to grasp them, Rip let one slip off and Westy saw
to his dismay that his eyes were blinking suspiciously and grabbed the
remaining hand quickly as Rip’s head fell slowly forward on his chest.
Westy tried to pull, taking a firmer hold on the fainting boy’s arm by
twisting his own legs about the trunk to fortify himself. It was a
terrible struggle, holding that inert body by one hand.
[Illustration: WESTY TRIED TO PULL, TAKING A FIRMER HOLD ON THE FAINTING
BOY’S ARM.]
He pulled again, and as he did so he felt his own person jerked roughly
and his eyes dilated with horror as he saw what had happened.
Rip’s head had gone under!