Hour after hour wore on, and still the storm drove them southward. All night Fessenden, in a way that was afterward a marvel to himself, fought a ceaseless battle with the sea and wind. His hands were numb and his feet were like ice, but he stood staunchly to his task.
In spite of his urgings, renewed from time to time, Betty crouched beside him all night long. She too was cold, colder even than he, for she could not warm herself by action. Still she held her post. Perhaps she knew that her presence there was an inspiration to him as real as the sight of the flag to the fighting soldier.
Toward morning the clouds broke overhead. The stars began to shine through. Then, to the relief of the Wisp’s crew, the wind began to fall, and about dawn the waves had ceased to be formidable.
“Betty,” said Fessenden joyfully, “I really believe we’ve pulled through.”
“Hurrah!”
While she held the wheel, he managed to lay hold of the now flapping jib, and to set it after a fashion. This greatly steadied the sloop.
Then, at last, Betty consented to listen to his persuasions to turn in in the cabin.
“We’re pretty well out of danger now,” he declared, “Go in and rest, Betty. Take off those dripping clothes—”
“Only steaming, please.”
“Amendment accepted! But take them off and go to bed. I’m afraid you’ll be sick—and then what should I do?”