A LANDING IN THE DARK.
As suddenly as it had swept down upon the catboat, the squall passed. But the veering wind drove the billows in from the open sea until, before it arrived in the shelter of the eastern point of Storm Island, the Spoondrift was riding a series of rising waves that would have threatened the safety of a much larger craft.
Her centerboard, however, aided in keeping the boat on even keel. The coolness of her steersman, and his knowledge of how to handle a cat, did the rest. The wind, driving behind, threatened no danger once the craft was headed right. There were five young fellows aboard the Spoondrift. Four of them were lined up along the weather rail and hanging on for dear life. Their expressions of countenance were as varied as their characters.
The red-haired chap, stout and stocky of build, looked calm enough; but the lids of his eyes were narrowed and his steady glance seldom left the foaming seas boiling under the lifting bow of the boat. His keen attention was given to what lay ahead.
Beside him was a little fellow with rosy cheeks, who clutched the "lubber line" till his knuckles were white. He was plainly excited and, perhaps, not a little fearful. At every plunge or kick of the boat he seemed to jump and grip the line more tightly if possible.
The third youth in the row was a long-limbed chap—a giant beside the little fellow—whose brick-red countenance, glistening with spray, gave no hint of fear, only of wonder. He was staring out over the tumbling waves with wide open orbs.
"What d'ye think of it, Applejack?" squealed the younger lad shrilly. "Not much like your bounding plains, eh?"
"She's a-bounding all right," croaked the one addressed. "And then some!"
The fourth chap uttered a harsh laugh. "It's only a squall. Wait till you see a real storm, Cloudman," he said.
"This is sufficient—ab-so-lute-ly!" squealed the little fellow. "Old Mid takes this like he does everything else—as though it were for the good of his soul."