Then he pulled his belt in a hole, grabbed my arm, and started to run up the long curve of the beach.

Behind us came Schwartz.

We ran near a mile, and then fell among some tules in an inlet at the farther point.
"What is it ?" I gasped.
"Our only chance--to get him--" said Denton.

"He's got to go around this point--big wind--perhaps his mast will bust--then he'll come ashore--" He opened and shut his big brown hands.
So there we two fools lay, like panthers in the tules, taking our only one-in-a-million chance to lay hands on Anderson.

Any sailor could have told us that the mast wouldn't break, but we had winded Schwartz a quarter of a mile back.