Dames

Even before the echoes came, the man felt gloomily certain that he was going to drown. When they did come, the nearest one--the one on which his hopes were set--was definitely farther away than it had been. And that meant that it was quite useless to swim. A current was carrying him away from whatever headland echoed the distant steamer’s fog-horn.

He could not see anything. A thick pall of mist hung about him, curiously tinted by an unseen sun. It allowed him to view a circle twenty feet from his eyes in every direction. In that circle there was nothing but oily water, stirring sluggishly in long swells of complicated outline. The distant steamer hooted, and echoes came, and somewhere he heard the staccato beat of a power-boat’s motor. Fishermen in the Inside Passage take no account of fog. But the power boat was far away, and the nearest echo was still farther this time than before, and the man knew more gloomily still that there was no possible way for him to escape drowning.

He turned on his back to float. He had not shed his clothing before, and it was too late to do it now. He had to paddle to keep his head above-water. When his strength gave out and he could not paddle any longer, he would drown. He swore a little--rather resentfully than in desperation--and paddled. Only his face showed drawn and weary.

The steamer’s fog-horn grew more distant and more distant still. The echoes grew fainter. The man who was presently to drown seemed to concentrate all his attention upon the mere feat of staying at the top of the water for as long a time as possible. But he had already been swimming for a very long time. Presently he struggled a little. His face went under. He thrashed, and ripples spread about him. He floated once more. He spat out water, weakly, and continued to paddle.

His eyes were peevish, and once he spoke aloud to the encircling mist. One word, and that with a scornful bitterness: “Dames!” It was as if he epitomized his own life. His ears were below the surface, so he heard nothing at all. There was little to hear except the single staccato power boat. But he did not even hear that. He paddled.

He went under again. Again he thrashed, and floated once more. But he was near the end. Presently his mouth opened convulsively. The motor boat was near, but he was hardly able to hear it. He went under. His arms thrashed feebly. He came up and made choked sounds. He came up yet again and uttered a cry which was not altogether human. From that time onward it seemed as if his body fought for life without any help from his intelligence. He fought the water blindly. He splashed weakly, and struggled and writhed.

The cry and the splashing was enough to cause the power boat to swerve. It came gliding out of the mist just as the struggles of the exhausted body were about to cease. A hand reached out swiftly and stayed the sinking of that body. A rather small hand, but a capable one. The putt-putt-putting of the motor stopped. Then a dim figure in the mist struggled manfully to draw the utterly limp figure of the swimmer into the boat.

* * * * *

He dropped on the floor-boards of the power boat and watched with a desperate alertness for some sign of suspicion or of doubt in his rescuer. A girl had rescued him. If she was pretty, he did not notice it. For one reason, he was exhausted.

She reached forward to the engine and cut the ignition. She listened sharply to the racket of echoes that came back through the fog, even after their source had ceased. She cut the spark in again before the fly-wheel had stopped. The engine resumed with a valorous uproar. She considered, frowning. Then her face cleared.

“About right.”