The survivor still clung here, and Zeb--who had been
vaguely wondering how on earth he contrived to keep his seat and yet
hold on by the rope without being torn limb from limb--now discovered
this end of the mast to be so tightly jammed and tangled against the
wreck as practically to be immovable. The man's face was about as
scaring as the corpses'; for, catching sight of Zeb, he betrayed no
surprise, but only looked back wistfully over his left shoulder, while
his blue lips worked without sound. At least, Zeb heard none.
He waited while they plunged again and emerged, and then, drawing
breath, began to pull himself along towards the stranger. They had seen
his success from the beach, and Jim Lewarne, with plenty of line yet to
spare, waited for the next move. Zeb worked along till he could touch
the man's thigh.
"Keep your knee stiddy," he called out; "I'm goin' to grip hold o't."
For answer, the stranger only kicked out with his foot, as a pettish
child might, and almost thrust him from his hold.
"Look'ee here: no doubt you'm 'mazed, but that's a curst foolish trick,
all the same. Be that tangle fast, you'm holding by?"
The man made no sign of comprehension.
"Best not trust to't, I reckon," muttered Zeb: "must get past en an'
make fast round a rib.
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