CHAPTER XII—THE ISLAND REFUGE
Those streaks on the horizon foreboded evil weather, as Luke had feared. None of the party on the Isobel had ever seen a storm gather so quickly. In an hour the waves were white-capped and those blue streaks of wind had reached the zenith.
Behind it, from the west, rolled up a pallid hedge of mist, back of which the stronger wind growled like a leashed dog. Lightning fluttered across the face of the coming cloud-bank. Then the crackle of thunder rose louder and louder.
Luke and Neale, even Mr. Howbridge, worked at the stalled motor. They took turns whirling the fly-wheel. There was no more response than as though they had stood up and commanded the tempest to recede.
Fortunately the children did not understand the threat of the elements. Tess and Dot were not often affrighted by a thunderstorm. And Ruth and Agnes could not wholly understand what was coming.
There was not the usual hush which is so often noted before the striking of such a tempest. In this case the wind and lightning drew on with equal velocity; but the rain stayed behind. On and on the forefront of the storm came, as savagely persistent as a pack of wolves, and then leaped upon its prey with a force that seemed to crush every object on the surface of the sea.
The only craft in sight was their own Isobel. The waves flattened about her for a considerable space, and for some moments, as though the wind came from directly overhead.
“Get inside, every one of you girls!” commanded Mr. Howbridge, shouting at the top of his voice. “Close that cabin door and keep it closed.”
The little ones were already below. Ruth went down the steps, shouting back over her shoulder:
“You’d all better come too. You can do nothing here.”