From the inverted mouth of the whistle, a few feet above, a hoarse,
deafening blast roared down into his face.
As he flung up his right hand and passed the end of the painter through
the lug a body shot over his head. Spurling had leaped on the top of the
dropping buoy. Percy was dragged down under the surface, the whistle
still ringing in his ears. He clung desperately to lug and painter.
The vibrations ceased. The can had reached its lowest point. It was
rising again. Out came his head.
"Can you hold on a minute, Perce?" roared Spurling's voice.
"Yes," strangled Percy.
"Then let go that painter! I've got it."
Hanging head down, his legs twined round a bail, Spurling worked rapidly
with both hands. Soon he had fastened the rope securely to the lug,
mooring the dory to the buoy.