Owen found no fault with the directions. Plainly it was the only thing to do. Owen did not put down the tiller until they were within forty feet of the shore. Then Allan let go the peak, pushed over the anchor, and they all sprang at the flapping sail.
Fortunately the cove afforded shelter from the full vigor of the wind, and made less difficult than might have been expected the task of lowering the sail. The slight shelter made it possible also to hold the lowered sail in a position to cover the pit of the boat.
“All hands to the pumps!” shouted Allan, and all three (McConnell with a drinking-cup) bailed energetically until the boat had again been made habitable. The rain fell heavily on the sail over their heads; but the situation had a pleasant flavor of adventure, and Owen distributed rations as successfully as the cramped situation would permit.
“I wish we had something warm,” said Owen. The rain had chilled them, and their clothes had no chance of drying in the present situation.
Owen finally made known his determination to get ashore and reconnoitre. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and slid over the stern with a line which he fastened to the low branch of a tree that overhung the water.
When he returned, in ten minutes, it was with news of an empty old house at a short distance, a house with a fireplace where they could “get a chance to dry up.” They clambered up to the old house, entered through a broken kitchen window, and soon had a blaze going in the front room fireplace. McConnell carried up the cooking traps.
“How are you feeling?” asked Owen, with a suspicious glance at Allan.
“Don’t worry about me,” Allan replied. “I only want to get my feet dried—and a cup of coffee,” he added, glancing wistfully at the kettle.
“You’ll have your coffee, Captain, in three minutes. Move up to the fire. McConnell, skin out and get me some water.”
It still was raining heavily, though the wind had modified.