There was no time to consider what was best to do.  The breakers were only five hundred yards off, and if he wished to live he must keep out of their clutches.  He began to swim diagonally across the current, putting all his strength into each stroke.  But for every foot of progress toward the calmer water he was borne a yard toward the breakers.

The tide bubbled and gurgled about him.  Miniature whirlpools tugged at his legs, pulling him under.  He fought nobly, setting his teeth and swearing inwardly that he would make it, he would not give up, he would not drown.  But the edge of the tide rip was a long way off, and he was growing tired already.  Another whirlpool sucked him down, and when he rose he shouted for help.  It was an instinctive, unreasoning appeal, almost sure to be useless, for who could hear him?—­but he shouted, nevertheless.

And the shout was answered.  From somewhere behind him—­a long, long distance, so it seemed to him—­came the clear call in a woman’s voice.

“All right!  I’m coming.  Keep on, just as you are.”

He kept on, or tried to.  He swam—­and swam—­and swam.  He went under, rose, went under again, fought his way up, and kept on swimming.  Through the gurgle and hiss of the water, sounding dully above the humming in his ears and the roar of the blood in his tired brain, came the clear voice again: 

“Steady now!  Just as you are! one more stroke!  Now one more!  Quick!  Quick!  Now!  Can you get aboard?”

The wet, red side of a dory’s bow pushed past his laboring shoulder.  A hand clutched his shirt collar.  He reached up and grasped the boat’s gunwale, hung on with all his weight, threw one leg over the edge, and tumbled into the dory’s bottom.

“Thanks,” he panted, his eyes shut.  “That—­was—­about the closest call I—­ever had.  Hey?  Why!  Ruth!”

She was panting, also, but she was not looking at him.  She was rowing with all her might, and gazing fearfully over her shoulder.  “Are you strong enough to help me row?” she asked breathlessly.  “We must head her away from here, out of this tide.  And I’m afraid that I can’t do it alone.”

He raised his head and looked over the rail.  The breakers were alarmingly close.  He scrambled to the thwart, pushed her aside and seized the oars.  She resisted.

“Only one,” she gasped.  “I can manage the other.”

So, each with an oar, they fought the tide, and won—­but by the narrowest of margins.  The dory edged into stiller and shoaler water, crept out of the eddying channel over the flat where the depth was but a scant four feet, turned almost by inches, and, at last, slid up on the sandy beach below the bungalow.  The girl sat bowed over the handle of her oar, her breast heaving.  She said nothing.  Her companion likewise said nothing.  Staggering, he stepped over the side, walked a few feet up the beach, and then tumbled in an unconscious heap on the sand.