Part 13 (1/2)

The sky was now dark, the waves had grown larger, and a pelting rain had begun to beat down in Madge's face. Tom had risen to the surface of the water again, and was feebly trying to swim toward her. He had shuddered with despair when he first caught sight of her in the water.

But his faint, ”Go back! Go back!” had not reached her ears. Nor would she have heeded him had she heard.

His intrepid little rescuer was swimming easily along, with firm, even strokes. Little water-sprite that she was, she would have enjoyed the breakers das.h.i.+ng over her head and the tingle of the fine salt spray in her face if she had not realized the danger that lay ahead.

”Keep floating until I can get to you!” she called out to Tom. She did not speak again, for she did not mean to waste her breath.

Tom was making an heroic effort to keep himself afloat. But he was growing weaker and weaker, and the last vestige of his strength was giving way. As Madge reached him, he managed to reach out and clutch her arm, hanging to it with a force that threatened to pull them both under. He was making that instinctive struggle for life usually put forth by the drowning. Madge experienced a brief flash of terror.

”Don't struggle, Tom,” she implored.

Even in his semi-conscious state Tom must have heard his companion's words. He ceased to fight, his body grew limp, and, clasping one of his hands in her own strong, brown fingers, Madge swam toward the spot where she had left the sailboat. Never once did she relax her hold on the burden at her side. Now and then she glanced up at their boat.

Each time she caught a glimpse of it it seemed to be farther away.

Could it be possible that the wind and the tide were carrying the sailboat ash.o.r.e faster than she could swim? Surely the youth on board would come forward to help them. Now the waves that dashed over Madge's head and lashed across her face sent echoing waves of despair over her plucky soul. Tom was too far gone to know or to care what was happening. The responsibility, the fight, was hers.

”I must save him,” she thought over and over again. ”It does not so much matter about me; I haven't any mother. But Tom----”

Her bodily strength was fast giving out, but her spirit remained indomitable. It was that spirit that was keeping them afloat in the midst of an angry sea.

But as for gaining on the sailboat, she was right. No matter how great her effort, she was not coming any nearer to it. The last time she looked up from the waves she could catch only a glimpse of the boat far ahead.

It seemed incredible. It was too awful to believe. The stranger she had left on board the sailboat was not coming to their aid. He was deliberately taking their boat to sh.o.r.e, leaving them to the mercy of the sea.

Even with this realization Madge did not give up the battle. The arm that held Tom Curtis felt like a log, it was so stiff and cold. She could swim no longer, but she could still float. There were other craft that were putting in toward the sh.o.r.e. If she could only keep up for a few moments, surely some one would save them!

But at last her splendid courage waned. She was sinking. The rescuer would come too late! She thought of the circle of cheerful faces she had left two hours before. Then--a cold, wet muzzle touched her face, a pair of strong teeth seized hold of her blouse. Tom's setter dog, Brownie, had managed to swim to his master. The animal's gallant effort to save Tom inspired Madge to fresh effort, and once more she took up the battle for her life and that of her friend.

CHAPTER XIII

LIFE OR DEATH?

”Is there no hope?” a voice asked despairingly.

”There is hope for a long time,” answered Phyllis Alden quietly. ”I have heard my father say that people may sometimes be revived after being in the water for many hours.”

”She must live, or I can not bear it,” declared Tom Curtis brokenly.

”Oh, won't some one go for a doctor? Can't you do something else for her?”

”The man has gone for a doctor, Tom,” soothed Mrs. Curtis. ”Does your arm pain you much?”

”Never mind my arm,” groaned Tom. ”She saved my life, mother, and now she's dead.” His voice broke.

”You mustn't say that,” cried Phyllis sharply. ”She _can't_ be dead.”

”Phil,” entreated Miss Jones, ”let me take your place. I am sure I can do what you are doing.”

Phyllis shook her head. ”I can't leave her.”

Phyllis Alden knelt on the ground on one side of the unconscious girl.

Jack Bolling and an old fisherman knelt opposite her. The artist, Mr.

Brown, was trying to a.s.sist in restoring Madge to consciousness.

Phyllis Alden had been drilled in ”first aid to the drowning” by her father. Long experience with the sea had taught the sailor what to do.

But Madge had resisted all their efforts to bring her to consciousness.