He struck fair on his feet on the very rail of the Wisp, stood tottering, fought wildly for his balance—and then Betty’s firm little hand plucked him safely inboard.
“Thank you, Bob White,” she said.
There was no time to return even a smile in answer. He gripped the wheel and gave the sloop a sheer with the hope of beaching her outright. But wind and wave caught her.
“Close the hatch!” he roared.
As it happened, the forward hatch-cover was already in place. Betty snapped to the sliding storm-door of the cabin barely in time. A sea swept the Wisp from end to end, flattening Betty against the side of the cabin, and nearly swamping the yacht at a blow.
Fessenden was glad to escape by putting the craft dead before the wind. Bare-poled as she was, the Wisp fled southeastward like a frightened thing. The rain, the clouds, and the night overtook them together.
With a thrill, Fessenden felt a long, regular swell suddenly begin to lift the battling yacht. There was still enough of daylight to permit him a sight of Betty’s pale little face.
“Betty,” he said, “don’t be frightened, but I’m afraid we’re clear of the Capes. This feels like the Atlantic.”
She made a staggering rush and reached the lockers. There she sat down beside him as he struggled with the wheel. The spray flew clear over them again and again.
She laid her wet cheek an instant against his arm. “The ocean?” she said. “I hope you won’t be seasick, Bob White. I know I won’t.”