At that instant, a wave struck the Wisp on the inboard quarter and heaved her strongly outward. The stern-line held staunchly, but under the tremendous strain the string-piece gave way like the rotted punk it was, not a foot in front of Fessenden.
“Betty!” he roared. “Betty!”
His cry stirred the heart of the girl within the cabin, and brought her instantly onto the floor of the cockpit. Before she could realize the danger of the situation, the worst had occurred.
He was already kneeling at the forward line, heaving hand over hand to haul the bow of the Wisp alongside. The sloop was almost within reach when another wave struck her. The line was snatched from his fingers, and the yacht, flung to the full length of the rope, carried away the string-piece as before. The Wisp was adrift!
As the timber sank under his feet, Fessenden clutched at a wharf stanchion. By a miracle, he saved himself from going overboard.
As if recoiling from the freedom so suddenly won, the Wisp took a slight sheer toward the pier. The tide, running like a mill-race, swept her broadside past Fessenden.
“Betty!”
The girl, her body lithe and alert, had been steadying herself by the safety-rail of the cabin roof. Her face had whitened at the sight of Fessenden’s peril, but it was only now, in response to his hoarse shout, that a sound escaped her.
“Bob White!” she cried, her arms suddenly extended in piteous appeal. “Oh, Bob White!”
The watery space between the wharf and the sloop was hopelessly wide, but, uttering an inarticulate and despairing oath, he took two running steps and leaped.