There was the sound of sullen thunder in the tumbling sea, which swished and swirled about the little vessel like hissing serpents.
Now and then Frank strained his eyes to port, for he knew the coast lay there to leeward, and he had no fancy for suddenly coming upon some rocky point that might project far out into the sea.
He fully understood that, in case the Greyhound should become disabled, it would not take the wind long to pile them upon the shore, where the seas would beat out their lives on the rocks.
There was danger in the tempest, and it was just enough to keep Merriwell’s blood rushing warm in his veins.
“If Stanford’s yacht has found shelter in Half-moon Bay, we’ll be a hundred miles below them in the morning,” he cried to Barney.
“Sure,” agreed the Irish lad. “But nivver a bit can we hilp thot, Frankie.”
The first half of the night was wild and boisterous. Near midnight the wind fell somewhat, but it still blew so strong that the Greyhound held on its course.
Toward morning the tempest died out, and sunrise found them rolling helplessly on the long swells, without enough breeze to steady the boat.
Diamond had been sick all through the night, and he was in a pitiable condition, looking pale and weak.
“If I ever get ashore, I won’t take another cruise for ten years,” he faintly declared. “It didn’t make much difference to me last night whether we went to the bottom or not. In fact, there was a spell when I rather hoped the old boat would go bottom up, and I’d been glad to take a chance by having her run ashore.”