Relieved of this impediment, it was not so very difficult to get the boat once more on an “even keel,” or to swim around and pick up the floating oars, but whatever of her cargo which could not float or swim was already at the bottom of the Skanigo. “Her gunwale is only an inch or so above the surface,” exclaimed Val. “I don’t see how we are ever to bail her.” There was a terrible whiteness on George Brayton’s face just then, and Effie Dryer must have seen it, for she said to him in a low voice, “I understand. You must leave me and swim ashore. You must save yourself.” “Never!” he hoarsely replied, but it was a dark moment in the life of George Brayton. Just then, however, Bar Vernon caught hold of a piece of wood that floated past him. “Here’s the rudder, Sibyl,” he exclaimed. “Now put that and the oar under your chin. Are you brave enough to float on that? It’ll keep your head above water while I go and help Val.” “I’ll do anything,” she answered. “Don’t be afraid about me.” A rare girl was Sibyl Brayton, and in a moment more Bar came swimming to the side of George Brayton with another oar and one of the movable boat-seats. “There,” he said, “that’ll help you keep her up. Val and I will bail out the boat.” Nothing but their hats, indeed, to start with, though the water was not so rough now. Still the waves would splash over in, and their work seemed almost hopeless. One inch. Then another! If their strength and that of George Brayton and the girls would only hold out! “Bar,” exclaimed Val, “try and get over the stern without upsetting her.” “You try it,” said Bar; “you’re lighter than I am.” It was a perilous experiment, for it endangered all they had thus far gained, but in a minute or so more Val Manning was in the boat and bailing for dear life. Bar turned, every now and then, for a look at his other friends. Sibyl’s face was pale, but she was steadily obeying his injunction “not to try to keep too much of her above water.” George Brayton was doing all a man could do, but it was evident that he was fast becoming fatigued, while Effie Dryer seemed almost afraid to look at him. “If I can only get in and help Val,” groaned Bar. But just then, sweeter than the sweetest music Bar had ever heard in his life, a chorus of wild yells from boyish throats came to his ears across the water, and around the nearest point of land he saw the great, clumsy, scow-built punt which Zeb Fuller and his friends had borrowed for their day’s fishing coming on at as great a resemblance to speed as her crew of excited boys could give her. “Overboard, all of them!” had been Zeb’s exclamation, as the scene of the disaster opened upon him. “Pull, boys, pull! No time now for remarks.” Pull they did like good fellows, only it seemed to them very much as if the heavy old scow were anchored. “Courage!” shouted Bar to Sibyl; “there’s help coming.” “Courage, Effie,” murmured George Brayton.