The wind tore the words from his lips, with a mocking shriek. He bent his head and gripped the tiller, while the boat wallowed along bravely, seeming like a wounded creature seeking cover as it grew weaker from loss of blood.
The boys worked with all the energy they could command to get the water out as fast as it came in. Bruce Browning did his best. They were chilled to the bone, dripping wet, and sick at heart. Every man of them felt that his chance of being drowned was most excellent.
Swish—bump! the big waves came down on the boat, struck her, piled over her. A score of times it seemed that she was swamped, a score of times she fought her way to the surface, a score of times prayers of relief were whispered by white lips.
She was not making much headway. The wind was carrying her off helplessly.
Still Frank clung to the tiller, trying to steer and succeeding in a measure, so that he kept her from rolling helplessly broadside to the seas.
“Light again!” cried Diamond, as the flash of fire again gleamed out and disappeared.
Now came a sound that was like the sullen roar of an animal in distress. It was the booming of the surf on shore.
“If I don’t strike the mouth of the cove, we’ll be piled up on a ledge, or high and dry on shore in less than two minutes,” came from Frank’s lips.
They heard him, and they realized they were close upon the islands. The sound of the surf added a feeling of terror to their other sensations, and yet they were thankful they had not missed the Thimbles and been driven out to sea.
Louder and louder came the booming roar of the surf. Through the darkness they seemed to see a white wall of foam that shifted and heaved, leaped and roared.