“Only—out of—breath,” she gasped. “They—are all—fastened together. Haul them in.”
Glancing down, he saw that she was holding one of the white boxes toward him. He made no motion to take it, but stared to windward, listening.
Dorothy could hear nothing but the wind and the waves and the swirling sleet.
“What is it?” she jerked out, striving to regain her breath.
“Wait a minute.” Suddenly Bill snatched up his electric torch and dove into the cabin.
Dorothy dropped down on a thwart with the box in her hand. After a short rest, she renewed her endeavors to get the remainder of her haul overside. When Bill clambered out of the cabin she was tugging at the strong line to which the boxes were tied.
“It’s jammed, or caught, or something,” she announced.
Bill looked overside.
“Yes, dash it all!” he growled. “We fouled the line and wound it round the tail shaft when I backed off just now. That’s what stopped the motor, of course. Let me see what I can do. You’re blown.”
He picked up another box bobbing alongside and started to haul in the line. One end of this he found was jammed under the stern, while on the other length a box appeared every thirty or forty feet.