They tore through the boiling sea at a tremendous pace. Huge waves pursued them, but never seemed to catch up. The sail was as tight as a drum; a wave of foam curled away from the bows of the boat.
"If this goes on," said Billy, all at once, casting a glance behind him, "we'll have to lower sail. Wonder it doesn't pull the stick out of the boat!"
In a few minutes he cast an anxious look ahead of him and called on his companions to say whether they discerned any signs of the tiny island. It was a small place, and in the rain and the gloom they might easily run past it. But then Patch gave a yell, and pointed.
"There it is, right ahead!" he cried.
"Good business!" said Billy Faraday. "We're safe!"
As if in mockery of his words, a colossal gust pounced on the boat and shook it as a terrier shakes a rat—and the thing Billy had feared came to pass. With a crack like a pistol-shot the mast snapped off short, and the sail and cords, in a tangled mass, collapsed over the bows.
Jack Symonds, impulsive as ever, leaped up to secure the wreckage; but the obstruction had brought the boat side on to the waves. That and his sudden movement were too much for the stability of the frail craft. As a following gust shrieked overhead the whole thing canted terribly over—and in a moment turned turtle.