He knew that in a few more seconds his straining lungs would
gulp in the stinging ooze, he knew his will could not prevent his
drawing in some sort of breath.
He clung desperately to the control of his diaphragm, as a falling man
clings to a ledge of rock. His great chest muscles gave convulsive
jerks. His control was going, going.
Suddenly a human hand gripped his wrist. He was jerked upwards, perhaps
a foot. A moment later he was gulping in great lungfuls of air.
He had been suffocating ten or twelve inches beneath that repulsive
slime, as securely captured as if he had been a thousand feet deep.
It had taken Greer and Smith that length of time to wriggle a yard or
two and fish him out.
"Steady! Steady!" said Caradoc in a lifeless voice. "Steady there,
Madden! Hold him tightly, Greer!"
Greer made some sort of groaning reply, when Caradoc snarled, "Let 'em
sting, you scullion! What if they do kill you! Is there any better way
to die?"
Madden felt a great pushing and jostling at his body. He raked the
seaweed from his face and opened his eyes. The Englishman was shoving
fiercely at the American's shoulder, Greer, ahead, pulling at an elbow.
The burning insects had swarmed on both his rescuers. Caradoc's
sun-baked face had a yellowish, bloodless hue, his lean jaws clenched
under his choppy white mustache.
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