It was now very dark, and every now and then the squall came down with merciless force upon her, so that, with the chance of the painter snapping when extra strain was on it, or the lashed spars being driven down upon the bows and staving them in, Lotty's position was that of exceeding great peril. In the midst of it all, however, she felt hungry, and presently crept farther aft; and, in spite of the intense darkness that now reigned, managed to open the bag and secure her supper. At the same time she took out her flashlight and hung this by its ring on to her girdle. She had a long draught of milk and returned the bottle, then—with a portion of food, a few nuts, and all the chocolates—she got forward again and resumed her place under the bows.
Her supper revived her spirits and courage, although as yet she had not taken into consideration the chances of her being able to ride out the storm to leeward of her bundle of oars and spars. It was well for her she did not think much, for she was entirely at the mercy of the wind and the waves, and drifting nor'ard and east into one of the wildest seas anywhere around our coasts. More than a sea was this; it was part of the great Atlantic Ocean, that extended in one unbroken line or expanse till it reached the Arctic and thundered upon the wintry bergs of the sea of ice itself. But, more betoken, the farther away the boat drifted from the shore, the higher became the waves, the less the poor wee gipsy lass's chance of keeping above the stormy waves.
CHAPTER XII.
'OUT YONDER, ON THE LEE BOW, SIR.'
THERE was not a pulse in the gipsy camp that did not beat more quickly with anxiety on this sad winter's evening when the sudden black squall came roaring over the hills, bringing with it the darkness of night and obliterating both sea and land. Hardly did any one dare to ask another what would become of the helpless child in her little boat. Dread fear and uncertainty seemed at once to kill all hope.
'Were the Jenny Wren a strong man-o'-war pinnace,' said one old sailor, 'or the sturdiest herring-boat that ever turned head to wind, there could be but small chance for her in the teeth of the gale that is now beginning to rage.'
To young Blake the whole affair was too frightful to contemplate. To have tried not to think of it would have been an act of cowardice, and to hope against hope seemed folly. Never till now had he known how his little companion had, with her innocence and winsome ways, wound herself round his heart, entwined herself into his affections. Strong he was, it is true, but in character most gentle and loving. He almost cursed the day now on which he had ordered the new boat. The old one that he had been so awkward as to sink was less safe in reality. Yet Lotty knew it, and would not have dared so much in it.
In about half an hour after the first fierce squall the darkness lifted just a little; then with his best telescope anxiously did Antony sweep the sea, while Biffins with his did the same. Not a speck of anything was to be seen.
'She has gone down,' raved the gipsy Lee; 'boat and all has sunk. And Lotty was the best property of the show. I am ruined! I am ruined!'
Antony was looking at the man hard and angrily.
'It is only the show you think of, Mr Lee. Have you neither love nor pity for the lost child—your daughter?' It was with difficulty Antony could utter the last two words.