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. In the midst of his burning pain he held his legs rigid, pushed Leonard with one hand and pawed furiously through the viscid tangle with the other.
The constancy of his companions braced Madden like a dash of ice water. His own weakness had brought about this dangerous plight. The American caught up his buoy, and between great
