After this they talked in low voices, sitting close together in the well. Reasonably sheltered, comfortable after a fashion, but anxious and strained; going out and out, and always watching. At least once every few minutes one or other of them thought they saw something dark--on a wave--in a hollow--against a creaming smother of foam; yet always it was nothing.
They heard the thump of engines on the wind coming from the thick distance, and thought they saw a long trail of black smoke blowing forwards, as a steamer went out west by north. Also they certainly saw an old barque, close hauled, jamming away into the heart of the dirt.
"Evidently tide is rising," reasoned Adrian. "That old thing wouldn't be going up if it wasn't; she's tacking. They always use tides, whatever the weather is. Ripping sailors those fellows are."
About an hour from then it was dark as possible; the wind was fairly hard, and kept the rain off, of course. Christobel tried not to think of her mother. The point was to get Pamela, and the likelihood pointed to the swamping of the dinghy. It sickened Crow to remember how probable that was, and to hearten herself she called up the memory of the little boat on the day of the big thunderstorm--whether towed or free, she had lived, anyway--and was this sea any worse? Christobel thought it was about the same, "Much of a muchness," she murmured; and Adrian asked: "What's that you are saying?" Crow told him what she was thinking.
"Oh, this is worse," said Adrian decisively; "we've had ten days of ups and downs to ruffle it, and the wind you get in a thunderstorm isn't the same as a bad turn like this. Crow, I'll get the night-glass. We might see something." Christobel gripped his arm, and suggested a change of direction.
If they made a course towards Peterock, they would have a fair wind, strong--but a tough tide against them. That would keep them from getting too fast--to nowhere in particular. Keep them neutral, as it were.
Adrian liked the idea, also said he: "Please remember we've had nothing to eat, my dear girl. I'm hollow, dying of hunger."
"So am I," agreed Crow, "and our strength must be kept up, whatever happens. Addie, why not lie-to?"
Adrian laughed, because he knew this was always the end and aim of Crow's manoeuvres in bad weather, and especially at food-times. The comfort of being able to do things while your craft managed herself was indescribable.
"I'll have a look round first," he said.