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 against the buoy and held him tight with little exertion for himself. Smith swung out as awkwardly as a turkey on a chopping block. The water was level with his lips, but his nose did not go under.

“Petered at last,” grunted Madden, staring at the corpselike face in dull speculation. “How in the world are we going to get him out of here?”

“I guess we can tow him out, sir,” growled Greer with dull indifference. “Mighty puny chap—always flopping over when he's in a tight place.”

“Come here, stick his arms through our buoys, put his own under his head!”

The plan was quickly carried out and Smith's unconscious form was placed beyond immediate danger.

The two youths took up their long swim once more. As they moved down the opening, they could see what slow progress they were making. Presently Madden explained in a low whispering tone:

“His heart's bad… can't stand much… poisoned with alcohol.”