He had, this time, turned his face towards the shore he had quitted. The
tide, he knew, was sweeping him up. He kept under water as long as he
possibly could, swimming his hardest. When he could keep under no longer,
he turned on his back, and permitted himself to rise slowly to the
surface.

The moment his mouth and nostrils were above water, he got rid of the
pent-up air, took another breath, and sank again. He swam on until he
felt, by the ground rising rapidly in front of him, that he was close to
the edge. He then cautiously came to the surface, and looked round.

He was close under the bank from which he had started, but two or three
hundred yards higher up. The bank rose straight up, some twelve feet
above him, and he could hear persons talking close to its edge.

"There he is."

"No, he isn't."

"Pretty nearly over the other side."

"I don't see him."

"They will catch him as he gets out."

"I believe he has sunk."

"He never could keep under all this time."