His head showed in the hatchway. He was handing through a metal can.
“And I’ve got another one,” he shouted. “Thought there must be some reserve aboard, so I explored the spare lockers aft. There—got it?”
For Tom had snatched up a five-gallon can and was lifting it to the covered deck forward. The “Meteor” was rolling and pitching under the lashing of the gale. Waves broke and dashed over that forward deck, but Joe, with a second five-gallon can, followed. Both boys had to crawl, feeling as though they were holding on by their teeth.
“You pour—I’ll shield the inlet from water!” shouted Dawson, over all the roar of the elements. “It’s life or death in a minute, now, old chum!”
Well enough Tom knew that, but he saw also the one bare chance of getting all hands out of their awful plight. Dawson crawled around to windward of the inlet to the gasoline tank, shielding it as much as he could with his body. He unscrewed the cap, while Tom removed the smaller top of one of the gasoline cans.
“Wait until the dash of the next wave is past,” shouted Halstead. “Then I’ll pour.”
Though it took many precious moments, they contrived to empty the can into the tank without getting any salt water mixed with it.
“Now, another can!” breathed Joe tensely.
But Tom, raising his eyes to glance at the spray-ridden reef, answered quickly:
“Later. There isn’t a second to lose now. Hustle back!”