Madden followed, trusting not to hit the dinghy and kill
himself. Malone was already scrambling down the rope ladder as fast as
he could go.
While a dive of one or two hundred feet is not uncommon, still Madden's
thirty-five foot drop sent chill tickly sensations through his chest and
throat. It seemed as if he would never stop falling through the
darkness, but at last he struck the water and went down, down, down.
When he finally kicked himself back to the surface and thrust his head
out, he heard a violent whispering among the excited boatmen. A moment
later an oar struck him under the armpit. Madden seized it, whispered
his own name and scuttled in over the gunwale. The men were shoving
desperately at the ship's side in an effort to get the dinghy under way.
From the deck overhead came guttural shouts in German and fainter
answers. Fortunately the guard did not take upon himself the
responsibility of shooting down into the boat, and in a minute or two
the refugees had assembled the oars and were rowing furiously from the
mother ship.
In the dim zone of light that belted the promenade, Madden could see a
number of hurrying figures. Then came a sharp command, and a rifle
stabbed the darkness with a knife of fire and a keen report.
Immediately came another, then another, then several.
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