Ned and Bob crouched in the bottom of the boat, to render it more steady, while Jerry clung to the wheel, which now and then was almost jerked from his hand by the force of the water on the rudder.
Every now and then the salt spray would dash over the craft, adding its saline dampness to that caused by the rain. It was now quite dark, with the rain making it all the more difficult to see. Jerry tried to pierce the gloom, for he had no more idea where he was going than a blind man. He knew he had started to pass out of the harbor of Harmon Beach, between the two points of land, and that he was steering east then. But, whether he had kept the boat headed in that direction was a question he could not answer.
In spite of it all the Dartaway was behaving admirably. She stood up to the attack of the waves and wind like a veteran. It was her baptism of the Atlantic, and she seemed to rejoice in it.
“Hark! I hear something!” cried Ned.
The boys listened as well as they could above the throbbing of the engine. Over the storm-swept waters there sounded three long whistles.
“It’s a boat!” cried Bob. “Look out, or she’ll run us down!”
“Can’t tell where she is,” Jerry answered, his hand on the lever to stop the engine in an instant.
“It’s behind us,” Ned shouted, standing up and trying to see to the rear.
Once more the whistle sounded. This time it was clearer, and in spite of the roar of the wind and the swish of the waves the boys could hear the throb of a boat engine.