For the first ten yards his progress was hastened by the undertow. Masses of milk-white foam mingled with moving sand were swirling round his legs and urging him on. He could see that the succeeding breaker would be upon him before he could get into deeper water. If it caught him squarely it would hurl him like a stone upon the beach, and probably batter the breath from his body. The crest towered high above his head. It was almost upon him. But Peter kept a cool head. As the wave broke, he dived into it, felt himself being borne backwards, was conscious of his feet coming in contact with the ground. He wanted to kick, to leap until his head appeared above the surging torrent. He felt he could keep his breath no longer. At last he broke surface and found himself beyond the breaker. He struck out vigorously. Found himself impeded. “Pay out more line, you fellows!” he shouted. He might well have saved his breath, for his voice was inaudible in the roar of the surf. It wasn’t that Brandon had neglected to give more scope to the line; it was the drag of the water against it. There was no sign of the man he was risking his life to save. Another wave came up, foaming ready to break. Peter surmounted it just before the angry crest toppled over. As he did so something was thrown against his side—something that felt like a sack of saturated sawdust. Instantly Peter gripped the object. It was the senseless body of a man. Now came the supreme effort—to regain the beach without being pounded by the breakers. It was easy enough to come ashore—the waves would see to that—but it was far from a simple task to protect himself and his senseless burden from the terrible onslaught of the hammering surf. And such a lot depended upon the life-line being hauled in at exactly the right moment. The life-line, hitherto a hindrance, was now apparently uselessly slack. Vaguely, Peter found himself wondering what possessed the fellows on the beach: why on earth weren’t they hauling away for all they were worth? Then it occurred to him that even at that short distance the shore was hidden in the fog. A mild panic seized him. What if the rope had parted and he was being carried out to sea? Not for one moment did he relax his grip upon his unconscious, perhaps lifeless, burden. Another roller was on the point of breaking. Would it batter him into a state of insensibility? It overtook him, fortunately without toppling over. Right on the crest he found himself, being urged towards the shore at a tremendous pace. Then with a loud roar the unstable mass broke. Peter felt his feet touch the yielding sand. He was surrounded by a swirling torrent of foam and hurled sideways like a sack of flour. Then he was conscious of the life-line tautening. He was being swept back by the undertow. In desperation he threw arms and legs round the form of the helpless seaman in an endeavour to prevent him being torn from his grasp.