“By George!” said Fessenden. “It looks as if we were in for it. Betty, we’d better have a look at the Wisp. That rotten old wharf!”
“I’ll race you to it!” she cried.
He overtook her in half a dozen strides, and throwing his arm about her shoulders, fairly swept her along with himself. She came no higher than his shoulders as she ran. Her eyes laughed up at him, and her shining hair brushed his lips. Aunty Landis was left hopelessly in the rear.
At the old pier, the waves, running far in beneath the flooring, were breaking against the ancient piles, while the structure complained in every joint. The Wisp, tied stem and stern to a string-piece, was plunging furiously.
“She seems to be all right,” said Fessenden, “but I think I’ll put an extra half-hitch in each of those lines.” He still steadied Betty against the wind as he spoke. “It wouldn’t be pleasant to be forced to go home in that excursion boat.”
Releasing his companion, reluctantly enough, he made his way out on the wharf. She promptly followed.
“Go back, child. The wind will blow you away.”
“I’m—all—right,” she gasped as he bent over the stern-line. “The rain will be here in a minute, and we’ll need the rain-coats.” She sprang aboard gaily.
“Come back!” he ordered. “I don’t believe it’s safe, Betty.”
“Only a minute,” she called. She waved a careless hand and dived into the cabin.