It was. The swimmer reached the side of the ship not four yards in
front of the pursuing boat. He caught at the trailing rope and
began to clamber up hand over hand, while the Englishman, a man
standing near, and Alice Frome dragged him up.
The mate of the Nancy Hanks, standing up in the boat, caught at
his foot and pulled. The man's hold loosened on the rope. He slid
down a foot, steadied himself. Suddenly the left leg shot out and
caught the grinning mate in the mouth. He went over backward into
the bottom of the boat. Before he could extricate himself from the
tangle his fall had precipitated, the dripping figure of the
swimmer stood safely on the deck of the _Bellingham._
In his wet foul slops the man was a sight to draw stares. The
cabin passengers moved back to give him a wide circle, as men do
with a wet retriever.
"What does this mean, my man?" demanded the captain of the
_Bellingham,_ pushing forward. He was a big red-faced figure with
a heavy roll of fat over his collar.
"I have been shanghaied, sir. From Verden. I'm the editor of the
_World_ of that city."
"That's a lie," proclaimed the mate of the _Nancy Hanks_ , who by
this time had reached the deck.
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