“Hold fast, everybody!”
The little vessel righted, and then away she leaped, laying hard over to port, with the rail awash.
Like a frightened race horse the Greyhound sped away, with the wild wind beating upon her and shrieking through her rigging. The mast bent with a snapping sound.
“Ease off the sheet!” shouted Frank. “We’re in danger of losing that stick, and we’ll be finished if we do!”
So the boat was allowed to run free, which eased the strain somewhat.
Now the wind was shrieking as if all the demons of the deep had been set loose in a moment and were making an assault on the little yacht that had been caught in the midst of the tempest.
At nightfall Frank had taken precaution to see that the proper lights were set, green to starboard and red to port.
The sky was covered with flying masses of clouds, between which the cold stars blinked and vanished, like the flashes of guns seen through masses of rolling smoke.
After a little the moon rose and leaped up into the mass of clouds, as if eager to be in the midst of the wild delirium of the reeling sky.
The Greyhound leaped along the crests of the waves, plunged into the depths of the watery valleys, and tore her way through the seething, boiling sea.