“Captain Ortega’s performance over again!” said Major Starland, “with the exception that he did it on purpose and I don’t think you did.”
“I am somewhat of the same opinion myself,” growled the Captain, “but here we must stay for several hours at the least.”
An instant investigation showed that the yacht had suffered no injury. She was staunchly built, and the impact was like that of a solid body against yielding cotton. Had the mud been rock or compact earth the result must have been disastrous.
The screw was kept viciously going, but it could not drag the boat off. Then the crew toiled for an hour shifting what was movable to the stern, but without result. Next, an anchor was carried a hundred feet up stream and imbedded in the oozy bed of the river, while sturdy arms on board tugged at the connecting hawser by means of a windlass, with the screw desperately helping, but the hull would not yield an inch. Finally the efforts were given up. Nothing remained but to wait till the rising tide should lift the mountainous burden and swing it free.
When the accident occurred, the tug had been left far out of sight in the winding stream, but about the middle of the afternoon it slowly drifted into view around a sweeping bend. The fact of its coming sideways showed that it was swayed wholly by the current.
“That is curious,” remarked the puzzled Major to Mate Horton; “why don’t they anchor, or pole to land, or tow the tug ashore with the smaller boats? There is no need of letting the vessel become a derelict simply because she has lost her screw.”
The interest of those on the yacht naturally centred in the gradually approaching craft, which was closely scanned through the various glasses. Miss Starland stood beside her brother, her instrument leveled, while he used only his unaided eyes. After a time he remarked:
“That boat seems to be moving slowly.”
“It isn’t moving at all.”
She handed the binocular to him, and a moment after pointing it, he exclaimed: