“Yes. What distance are they off?”
“About eighteen miles. Two hours, if the wind lasts, and we can bear it.”
“And could the yawl stand this?” said Harcourt, as a heavy sea struck the bow, and came in a cataract over them.
“Better than ourselves, if she was manned. Luff! luff!—that's it!” And as the boat turned up to wind, sheets of spray and foam flew over her. “Master Charles hasn't his equal for steerin', if he wasn't alone. Keep her there!—now! steady, sir!”
“Here's a squall coming,” cried Harcourt; “I hear it hissing.”
Down went the peak, but scarcely in time, for the wind, catching the sail, laid the boat gunwale under. After a struggle, she righted, but with nearly one-third of her filled with water.
“I'd take in a reef, or two reefs,” said the man; “but if she could n't rise to the say, she 'll fill and go down. We must carry on, at all events.”
“So say I. It's no time to shorten sail, with such a sea running.”
The boat now flew through the water, the sea itself impelling her, as with every sudden gust the waves struck the stern.
“She's a brave craft,” said Harcourt, as she rose lightly over the great waves, and plunged down again into the trough of the sea; “but if we ever get to land again, I'll have combings round her to keep her dryer.”