He paused, lifted him in his arms and plunged forward again.
The flares on the cliff were growing in number.

They cast long shadows before him.

On the far side of the island the tide flowed swift and steady--a stream about fourteen yards wide--cutting him from the farther sand-bank on which, not fifty yards above, lay the wreck.

He whispered to Joey, and plunged into it straight, turning as the water swept him off his legs, and giving his back to it, his hands slipped under the child's armpits, his feet thrusting against the tide in slow, rhythmical strokes.
The child after the first gasp lay still, his head obediently thrown back on Taffy's breast.

The mare had ceased to scream.