“If she’s a fisherman,” said Code, “I’ll pull the Lass out of water before she beats us in.”
It was killing work, the last beat home.
“Hard a-lee!” would come the command, and some men would go down into the smother of the lee rail and haul in or slack away sheets, while others at the mastheads would shift top- and staysail tacks.
Her head would swing, there would be a minute of thrashing and roaring of gear, and the gale would leap into her sails and bend her down on her side again. Then away she would go.
The station of those on deck was a good two-handed grip on the ringbolts under the weather-rail, where, so great was the slope of the deck, they clung desperately for fear of sliding down and into the swirling torrent.
Hour after hour the Nettie and the Lass fought it out, and hour after hour the gale increased. Hurricane warnings had been issued all along the coast, and not a vessel ventured out, but these stanch fishing vessels cared not a whit.
It was evident, however, that something must give. Human ingenuity had not constructed a vessel that could stand such driving. Even Pete Ellinwood began to lose his heartiness as the Lass went down and stayed down longer with each vicious squall.
“Shut up, Pete!” said Code, when the mate started to speak. “No sail comes off but what blows off, and while there’s all sail on the Nettie I 275 carry all sail if I heave her down for it. Watch him, he’ll break. Burns is yellow.”
The words were a prophecy. He had hardly uttered them when down came the great balloon jib of the Nettie B. At once the Lass began to gain in great leaps and bounds. They were fifty miles from home and two miles only separated them.