Jim came crawling aft again.
"Guess that'll hold her!" he exclaimed. "I've strengthened the lanyard with some ground-line, and it ought to last us through the night. We'll be as snug as if we were in Sprowl's Cove, hey, Perce?"
Percy could hardly agree with him. The roaring, rain-shot blackness, roofed with murky clouds and floored with rushing surges, was not calculated to inspire confidence in a landsman. With every sea the dory leaped back several feet, until the straightened painter brought her up. Showers of spray flew over the boys. It was well both were clad in oilskins.
They were not entirely without light. The water was firing. Every breaking wave dissolved in phosphorescence. The tub before the bow was outlined in radiance; the whipping painter was transmuted to a rope of silver; and as the dory split the crashing rollers they streamed away in sparkles of ghostly flame. Even in their peril the boys could not help appreciating the weird beauty of the display.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" said Percy. "Say, Jim, how far south's the nearest land?"
"Somewhere around two thousand miles, I guess. Too far to interest us any. I think it's one of the West Indies."
The wind was growing stronger, the sea rougher. Now and then a young flood set both boys bailing, Jim with the bucket, Percy with the scoop.
"Won't do to let it gain too much on us," remarked Jim. "She can't sink; but if she should fill it'd be pretty uncomfortable."
The rain had ceased; the clouds did not hang so low. Suddenly Percy gave a whoop of joy.
"Look in the west!"