“Perhaps we could get home before they missed us,” suggested Anne, hopefully.
Amos nodded; he was still busy with the big fish, but in a few moments he began to look anxiously ahead.
“The wind’s pulling round to the southeast,” he said. “I guess we sha‘n’t hit Long Point after all.”
“We’re going right into Wood End,” declared Amanda, “or else to House Point Island. Oh, Amos, if we land on that island nobody will ever find us.”
“It will be better to land anywhere than to be carried beyond Race Point,” said Amos; “the wind is growing stronger every minute.”
The three children no longer felt any interest in their fish-lines. Amos had drawn his line in when they started off from shore, and Amanda had let go of hers when the first oar was lost. Anne was the only one who had kept a firm hold on her line, and now she drew it in and coiled it carefully around the smooth piece of wood to which it was fastened.
“I’ll get this boat ashore some way,” declared Amos boldly; “if we run near any land I’ll jump overboard with the painter and pull the dory to shore. I’ll get up in the bow now so’s to be ready.”
Neither of the little girls said anything. Amanda was ready to cry with fear, and Anne was watching the sky anxiously.
“The sun is all covered up with clouds,” she said, and before Amos could answer there came a patter of raindrops. The wind, too, increased in force and the waves grew higher. Anne and Amanda crouched low in the boat, while Amos in the bow peered anxiously ahead.
Within the curve of the shore of Race Point lay House Point Island, where Amos hoped they might land. It was a small island partly covered with scrubby thickets but no tall trees, and with shallow water all about it. Amos was sure that he could pull the clumsy boat to shore if the wind would only set a little in that direction. The September afternoon was growing late, the sky was now completely overcast, and the rain falling steadily.