and what a shout
they sent up from that boat!

"Ay, thar' they was, for sure, but--God, how fur away! Not much for
common weather, but then they looked as fur to me as 'arth from heaven.
Ef we could reach 'em afore the next sweel come; and every man, it seemed
as though he put his livin' soul into his arms. 'Pull! pull!' says
George, and seemed to git the strength of seven, but still we went too
slow. We missed _him_ at the oar. And _he_, he was the strongest swimmer
that I ever knowed, but who could live in the like o' that? We pulled for
life or death, and that brave head kep' risin' on the wave.

"Ef we could 'a' had another minute afore the next sweel come! George
Olver felt it. He sent the rope out with a giant's throw. Then it was all
and more than we could do to held the boat ag'in the wind. It come so
fast ye scurse could see them next ye in the boat. 'He's grappled it!
he's thar'! he's thar'! says they, and when they pulled it in, thar' was
that other one belt fast, and only him.

"God knows! I calk'late he made sure o' the other first, and thar' wa'n't
jest the breath's time left for him, blinded so sudden maybe, and fell
death faint. I've knowed it be so with the strongest; no wonder thar';
the wonder was in what he done. He was the strongest swimmer that I ever
knowed, the strongest and the fearlessest!

"George Olver never'll be content. He would 'a' gone in after _him_. We'd
be'n driv' a furlong back, I reckon, and every mark was lost. It 'ud be'n
naught but to swaller him, too. He lost his sense. We had to holt him
back. He raved thar', like a madman. It blew a bitter spell, longest of
all, and when it helt a bit so we could take our bearin's some'at, what
hope! What hope!

"But poor George, of a suddint he grew quiet as a lamb, and set a lookin'
out, with his hand light on the oar, as ef 'twas pleasant weather, and he
could see _him_ ridin' in thar' easy on the wave; and his eyes was fur
off and smilin', but they looked as though they died.

"Mebbe--I know no more.

"We found him arterwards. Thar' wa'n't no mark nor stain on him. You
think I talk dry-eyed. Go you and look at him. Somehow it don't leave
ary breath for cryin'. It's like as ef he knowed. It's more than
quietness, seemin' to say, for all he loved his life and fou't so hard
out thar', ter lose his own at last--givin' or losin', he never missed o'
naught! he never missed o' naught!

"I can't tell what's the thought comes nighest to y