Then Dawson held on—how he gripped!
A moment more and the force of that invading billow was spent. Joe, panting under the strain of that fight against tons of water in motion, drew Halstead to him in safety.
But the “Restless,” with no hand at the wheel, was lurching around into the trough of the sea. The next wave might engulf her.
Sure that his friend was safe, Joe Dawson sprang to the wheel. While he was still fighting with the steering gear, Tom Halstead stood at his side. Between them, not without effort, they put the bobbing little cork of a cruiser on her course, once more, on that seething, boiling stretch of waters.
“Can you hold her, Joe?” panted Tom, huskily, in his friend’s ear.
Dawson nodding, Tom stepped back to Dixon, who regarded the young captain with curiously blazing eyes.
“I think you’d better go below, sir,” shouted Halstead.
“Why—why—do you mean——?”
“I mean nothing,” retorted Tom, dryly, “except that the deck is no place for you in this weather. We can handle the yacht better if all passengers are below.”
“But——”