Hepton, seeing them coming, made a sign to Joe, who stood doggedly braced at the wheel. Joe did all he could—it was little enough—to swing the boat’s head a trifle so that she would ride more easily, if possible, in that terrible sea.
Slowly Tom and Hank made their way to the motor room door and slipped down below. There Powell Seaton, his face white, confronted them.
“Captain, this is awful. I don’t see how the ‘Restless’ rides such a sea at all.”
“She’d not only ride but steer well, sir, if we had gasoline enough to run her by her propellers,” Halstead shouted back. “I’d go all the way to Havana in a gale like this if I could use the twin propellers. The ‘Restless’ is a sea boat, and she can’t sink unless the watertight compartments are smashed.”
“But she can turn over and ride keel upward, can’t she?” demanded Mr. Seaton, with a ghastly grin. 210
“She can, sir, if she heels enough,” Tom admitted. “But that’s why Joe’s at the wheel—because we need a fellow who can make the most out of such headway as the force of wind and waves gives us. And now, sir, Hank and I must try to rig a new sail.”
Out of the sail-locker they dragged the new canvas. It was all in readiness for rigging. In calm weather they could have done this readily—but now? Only time could tell.
“Lend ’em a hand, Hepton!” roared Joe, as he saw the young captain and helper appear with the bulky canvas.
It was all the three of them could do, in the rolling, high seas in which the “Restless” pitched like a chip of wood, to get that sail on top of the cabin deck-house. Bit by bit they rigged it in place, working fast, straining muscle and sinew to hold the sail against the gale that strove to carry the canvas overboard. At last, they had it in place, ready for hoisting.
“Stand by to hoist,” sang out Captain Tom. “The two of you. Go slow! I’ll watch for trouble as you shake it out.”