The boy gave one quick look around. The wind was blowing about over the deck a number of camp stools that had been left out, but he reasoned that they would be caught and held by the rope network about the deck. Neale’s chief anxiety was about the anchor.
The cable to which this was bent was made fast to a cleat on the lower deck, and as the lad made his way there by an outside stairway he heard some one walking on the deck he had just quitted.
“I guess that’s Hank,” Neale reasoned.
The boy was pulling at the anchor rope when he heard Hank’s voice near him asking:
“What’s the matter, Neale?”
“We’re either dragging our anchor or the cable’s cut,” answered the lad. And then, as the rope came dripping through his hands, offering no resistance to the pull, he realized what had happened. The anchor was gone! It had slipped the cable or been cut loose. Just which did not so much matter now, as did the fact that there was nothing to hold the Bluebird against the fury of the gale.
Realizing this, Neale did not pull the cable up to the end. He had found out what he wanted to know—that the anchor was off it and somewhere on the bottom of the lake. He next turned his attention to the boat.
“We’re drifting!” he cried to Hank. “We’ve got to start the motor, and see if we can head up into the wind. You go to that and I’ll take the wheel!”
“All right,” agreed the mule driver. “This is some storm!” he added, bending his head to the blast of the wind and the drive of the rain.
It was growing worse every moment, Neale realized. Buttoned as his rubber coat was, the lower part blew open every now and then, drenching his bare legs.