She turned her back upon him.
Half a mile astern a long, white line extended itself across the river. Beyond it the boatman could not see, for all was murk and grayness and ominous opacity. Then the white line seemed to leap forward at a furious pace. The speed of the launch was as nothing to it.
Suddenly the steersman seemed to awake. He chewed his under lip anxiously as he watched the onrush of the line of foam.
"Worse than I thought," he muttered. "I'm a fool."
A quarter of a mile to his left lay an island, but he knew there was not a chance in a thousand of making the lee of it. Besides, to alter the course meant taking the squall abeam, with a swift ending of the voyage in mid-river.
"Come aft here!" he commanded.
Rosalind turned and studied the white line. It was not more than a hundred yards distant. Without a word she obeyed him.
He motioned her to a seat beside him, and as she sat down passed an arm around her shoulders.
"Sit tight, pal," he said. "And if it gets too bad, there's a life-preserver under your feet."
The change is his tone impressed her for the moment far more than threatened perils. All the banter and sarcasm had vanished from his voice. He spoke gravely, almost grimly.