Chapter XXIII: Westy Has a Struggle

It was almost inaudible, yet Westy knew the cry to be Rip’s. It sounded exhausted, too, so there was no time to be lost!

Kicking off his heavy shoes, he dove straight in the water, striking it without hardly a ripple. He struck out with an overhand stroke and gained splendidly at the offset when suddenly he felt something pulling at his legs and had all he could do to keep himself up. Each time he attempted to go ahead, just that much he was pulled back again.

Westy was an excellent swimmer and had many experiences with the undertow in the waters of the Atlantic. He knew just how to buck the tide and when not to. But this was different; a new state of affairs entirely, and not much headway could be gained.

Every few feet he would be almost sucked under by this impetuous thing that lay hidden beneath the calm and gleaming surface. It was almost incredible that Nature could be so subtle as to entice the poor, weak human being into such a trap by virtue of its warm, soothing waters.

However, for another short distance it seemed he was granted a respite and had shaken himself free of it, and in his joy he raised his head and called to Rip a few words of comfort.

All he could see of the trapped boy was his head and shoulders and his arms clasping the tree in a tight grasp. Rip didn’t answer him.

“Do you hear, old boy?” Westy called again. “I’m on the way at last!”

Westy kept on and realized that Rip’s exhaustion was pretty complete when it prevented him answering. And then again he felt the tugging at his legs. This time it was worse, much worse than before, and he realized that it was going to take all his strength to make it.

His arms were beginning to ache as the result of his body dragging its weight upon them. But with determined effort he at last got within twenty feet or so of Rip and the tree.

In the glimpses he got of the boy’s face as it partially submerged and then reappeared with the terrific undercurrent, he saw that it was of a death-like pallor.

“Rip, it’s not much longer. Try and hold on a minute!”

Rip turned his head slowly, never loosening his grasp on the tree, and a look of pathetic hopelessness was in his tired eyes.

“You can’t make it, Wes!” he called, his voice just above a whisper. “It’s a regular whirlpool here within ten feet of me. I’m so tired, but it’s my own fault!”

“Only a second now, kid!” Westy’s voice was so cheerful, but he was thinking: “Huh! About ten feet, is it?” He didn’t see how he was going to make it, either. His arms were so cramped, and if it was a whirlpool there.... He stopped about twelve feet from Rip and rested a precious second, swinging one arm and then the other to revive his circulation.

Gauging the distance in his mind’s eye, he took a plunge and was whirled like a top through the water, coming up directly alongside of the tree twelve feet or so nearer to the cliff than Rip was and out of the worst of the vortex.

Swinging his body with all his strength, he managed to get one leg over the tree trunk and pulled the rest over gradually. Dragging himself forward, he reached the end, where the exhausted boy encircled the tree with his arms.

As he leaned forward to grasp them, Rip let one slip off and Westy saw to his dismay that his eyes were blinking suspiciously and grabbed the remaining hand quickly as Rip’s head fell slowly forward on his chest.

Westy tried to pull, taking a firmer hold on the fainting boy’s arm by twisting his own legs about the trunk to fortify himself. It was a terrible struggle, holding that inert body by one hand.

He pulled again, and as he did so he felt his own person jerked roughly and his eyes dilated with horror as he saw what had happened.

Rip’s head had gone under!