“It’s lucky the law requires all sail and motor craft to carry these things. Better slip into one—I’ll put on the other.”
Dorothy lifted her eyebrows questioningly. “Think we’re liable to get wrecked?”
“Nothing like that—but a life preserver is great stuff when it comes to stopping bullets.”
“Gee, Bill, do you really expect a scrap? There isn’t a sign of the motor sailor yet.”
“I know—but they’re out here somewhere, just the same. Neither of us is showing lights, so in this weather we’re not likely to spot each other unless our boats get pretty close. And if they do, those hyenas won’t hesitate to shoot! Here, let me give you a hand.”
Having put on the life preservers over their dripping slickers, they sat down and waited. The wind was freshening. A strong, steady draft blew out of the northeast and it was gradually growing colder. The rain had turned into sleet, fine and driving, but not thick enough to entirely obscure the atmosphere.
“Good gracious, Bill—sleet! That’s the limit, really—do you suppose we’ll ever sight the ship through this?” Dorothy’s tone was thoroughly disgusted.
“Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully, “this isn’t so bad. Her masthead lights should have a visibility of two or three miles, at least.”
Dorothy said nothing, but, hands thrust deep into her pockets and with shoulders hunched, she stared moodily out to sea.
For about an hour they drifted, the broad-beamed motor boat wallowing in the chop which crossed the ground swell. Twice Bill started the motor and worked back to their original position. He did not like the look of things, but said nothing to Dorothy about it. The wind grew stronger and seemed to promise a gale. The low tide with the line of breakers across the mouth of the inlet would effectually bar their entrance to Great South Bay for the next ten hours. And he doubted if they would have enough fuel for the run of nearly fifty miles to the shelter of Gravesend Bay.