“Art’s overboard!” cried Frank. “He will be crushed, sure.”
They looked into the narrow basin, but not a sign could they see of him. The water swirled and eddied, formed little whirlpools, dashed miniature breakers against the rocky walls, and receded. All the time the yacht swung nearer and nearer the masonry, and the boys knew that unless he escaped by a miracle Arthur would be crushed between.
For a minute the two boys gazed helpless, then a plan occurred to the skipper, which he proceeded to execute instantly. Taking the broken end of the parted line, all the slack possible having been let out, he stood on the capstone of the lock and measured the distance between it and the unsteady yacht. It was a long leap under the most favorable circumstances, and the handicap of the heavy rope and the heaving deck of the vessel, such a long way out and so far below, made the chances of failure infinitely greater—and failure in this case meant almost certain death. For an instant he hesitated, then, fearful lest his resolution should fail him if he waited longer, he sprang over the tossing, swirling water straight for the yacht’s deck. With scarcely six inches to spare, he landed with a jar that dazed him for a second. With the line still in his hand, he ran forward and made it fast to the bitts, so that the “Gazelle” once more swung straight in the pool.
“Do you see him?” Frank cried anxiously from the shore.
Kenneth looked into the bubbling water for signs of the mate. It was hardly more than a minute or two since the skipper had cried, “Shut off the water!” but Arthur might have met his doom in even that short time.
“I am afraid he’s a goner,” Ransom answered. “I can’t see him.”
It was Arthur’s familiar voice, and came from below aft somewhere.
Kenneth rushed aft and caught sight of the mate’s legs thrashing around under the overhang.
With rare presence of mind he had done the one thing that could save him. Finding himself overboard, he swam with swift strokes aft and clung, in spite of the twisting and rocking of the yacht, to the rudder. The overhang protected him from all harm, and beyond a chill produced by the cold water he was unhurt.
The lock-keeper, thoroughly scared by the consequences of his ill-temper, tried to make amends by letting in the water so gently that the “Gazelle” reached the upper level with scarcely a tremor.
