Percy clutched the handle just as the pail was going over the side. He bailed, while Spurling brought the flooded craft stern to the seas.
"Take her now, Perce! Give me the bucket!"
Furiously he began scooping out the water. After a long, discouraging fight the boat was bailed clear.
"We've got to run before it while I rig another drug," said Spurling. "Keep her as she is."
In the stern stood a five-gallon can of gasolene, one of the few things that had not been washed overboard when the dory filled. Making use of the sadly diminished coil of ground-line, Jim fastened this can to the end of the painter. Picking a smooth chance, he swung the bow up into the wind again; and soon they were floating snugly behind their new drug.
For another hour they drifted uneventfully. Out of a cloudless sky the red sun dropped below the flying spindrift. A second night was coming, and still the norther raged with undiminished violence.
It was growing dark and the stars were already out when a new sound fell on Percy's ears.
"What's that?" he exclaimed.
Up from the south came a faint, long-drawn, mournful voice, Oo-oo-oo-ooh! They listened breathlessly. It sounded again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!
"Whistling buoy!" ejaculated Jim. He thought a moment. "Cashe's Ledge!" he shouted. "Sixty miles south of Tarpaulin! That's drifting some since yesterday afternoon. Must be less than a mile to leeward or we couldn't hear it against this gale."