out past
a point of froth-lapped shingle. There was already a white-topped sea
running, and the spray from the oar-blades and the dinghy's bows blew
aft into his companion's face in stinging wisps as he drove the
plunging craft over it. Now and then an odd bucketful of brine came in
and hit him on the back, while Miss Hamilton, who commenced to get
very wet, shivered and drew her feet up as the water gathered deeper
in the bottom of the boat.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to throw some of that water out," he said.
"There is a can to scoop it up with."

The girl made an attempt to do so, but it was not surprising that in a
few minutes, when the dinghy lurched viciously, she let the can slip
from her fingers. Nasmyth set his lips tighter, and his face was
anxious as he glanced over his shoulder. The sea was white-flecked
between him and the _Tillicum_, which lay rolling wildly farther down
the beach, at least half a mile away. It already taxed all Nasmyth's
strength to drive the dinghy off shore, and every sea that broke a
little more sharply than the rest splashed into the boat. He held on
for another few minutes, glancing over his shoulder and pulling
cautiously, for it was evident that he might fill the dinghy up or
roll her over if he failed to swing neatly over the crest of some
tumbling comber. In spite of his efforts, a wave broke on board, and
sitting ankle-deep in water, he waited until there was a slightly
smoother patch in front of him, and then swung the dinghy round.

"I'm afraid we'll have to make for the beach," he announced.

He would have preferred to head for the inlet, but that would have
brought the little white seas, which were rapidly getting steeper,
dangerously on her beam, and the thrust of one beneath her side
probably would have been sufficient to turn the diminutive craft over.
He accordingly pulled straight for the beach before the wind, and the
perspiration dripped from his set face as he strove to hold the dinghy
straight, when, with the foam boiling white about her, she swung up on
the crest of a comber. Once or twice Nasmyth glanced at Violet
Hamilton reassuringly, but she sat, half-crouching, against the
transom, gazing forward, white in face, with her wet hair whipping
about her. Nasmyth had not noticed it before, but her hat had
evidently gone over. Speech was out of the question. He wanted all his
breath, and recognized that it was not advisable to divert his
attention for a moment