No sooner was the plan thought of than the energetic Gurt proceeded to put it into practice, and spliced all the ropes he could get hold of, being armed with that useful implement, a jack-knife, which no sailor is ever without. “It’s ’bout quart’r mile fro’ shore,” said Gurt, fastening one end of the rope to the mast and the other round his waist; “but if rope ain’t long ’nough, you gents tie on more, an’ pay out. Here’s knife.” Crispin took the knife, so as to be ready for such emergency, and then gave Gurt his spirit-flask, from which the mariner drew new life, although he was pleased to regret that the contents were not rum, instead of brandy. Having thus revivified himself, Gurt, with the rope round his waist, scrambled down into the calm water, and was soon striking out boldly for the shore. Maurice and the poet watched his black head bobbing up and down in the blue, and kept paying out the rope carefully, lest any entanglement should hamper the swimmer. “Thank Heaven, he’s all right!” cried Crispin in a tone of relief, as they saw the white figure of the sailor clambering over the black rocks. “Now it’s our turn.” In order to swim freely, Gurt had stripped naked, so the two left on the mast had to carry his clothes to shore, a thing easy enough, as all Gurt wore was a shirt and a pair of blue serge trousers. Crispin took one article, Maurice the other, and waited for Gurt to signal from the shore that the rope was made fast. Soon they saw him waving his hand and shouting to intimate all was right; whereupon they examined the knot of the rope to see that it was fast to the mast, and then slid down into the sea. The rope was pretty well taut, as it ran from the mast to the shore, so Crispin and Maurice, holding on to it, struggled along towards the land. Their limbs ached with pain, owing to their long exposure to the night-air, but a drink of spirits each put new vigor into their wearied frames, and, after a toilsome journey, aided by the rope, they managed to reach the beach, up which they scrambled with thankful hearts. “All right, sirs?” asked Gurt, dressing himself rapidly. “Stiff,” replied Crispin ruefully. “I feel as creaky as an old door!” “Ain’t used t’ it,” grinned Gurt, shifting his quid; for, during all the trouble and danger, he had retained that as his only solace. “Well, I guess, sirs, we’d best take more rum, an’ then explore this here island.” “Oh, I know all about it,” said Crispin cheerfully. “But see, the sun is up, so, as it is no use trudging about in wet clothes, we had better dry them.”