'What shall we do, Sam? It looks black there, don't it?'
'Black enough—we must run away from it.'
At once, Sam tied up the sail as carefully as he could, and stowed it as near the bottom of the skiff as possible.
'Where will you run, Sam? we are most out to sea now.'
'We must go a little nearer yet, for all that I see;—quick, Jim, take the helm; you see that white streak, don't you, running out from the shore yonder?'
'Yes.'
'It is a mile nearer to us than any place we can get to; make for that—it is our only chance.'
Jim did as directed; for, on the water, he yielded implicitly to Sam. The oars were out, and Sam's utmost strength was tasked; their lives depended on the fact of his ability to reach that bar before the storm should overtake them. As they progressed, the waves sensibly increased; and occasionally, through Jim's inexperience in steering, water enough would be shipped, not only to wet them thoroughly, but to endanger the feeble craft.
Sam's eye was steadily fixed upon the rising gust; he heeded not the waves—death was behind them—if they reached not that landing-place in time, they must be his prey. Vivid streaks of lightning ran along the curling edges of the clouds, and heavy-rolling thunder, increasing in loudness at every clap; far off upon the distant land could be seen volumes of dust rolling high up in the air; and when the thunder ceased, the sullen roar of the tempest was distinctly heard.
'How fast it comes, Sam!'