The same slow swirl of the
Sargasso current that had closed up their avenue on the west side, had
opened another on the east. Their way toward the schooner lay
unobstructed.
The clean delightful seawater soothed the pain of their stinging flesh.
"We'll be there in fifteen minutes," murmured Leonard weakly.
"When you're ready, say so," said Greer with a frown still lingering on
his heavy face.
At that moment Madden heard a groan from Caradoc.
"What's the matter?" aspirated the American.
"Nothing--weak--don't bother." He closed his eyes, blew out his breath
like a sick man. His face was bloodlessly sallow, and Madden could see
his grip slipping on the canvas buoy.
"You're all in!" gasped Madden in exhausted staccato, "I knew you
oughtn't to--aren't you about to faint again?"
The Englishman shook his head slightly. "Don't worry," he murmured, then
his eyes closed, his hands slipped loose.
With brusque directness, Madden caught the shock of tawny hair, jammed
Caradoc's chin against the buoy and held him tight with little exertion
for himself. Smith swung out as awkwardly as a turkey on a chopping
block. The water was level with his lips, but his nose did not go under.
"Petered at last," grunted Madden, staring at the corpselike face in
dull speculation.
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