Getting ashore in the dingy was not easy work. Jerry and Hal took charge of the oars, and, bumping and scraping against the schooner and shipping more or less water, three trips were made to the beach. The place was not unknown to Captain Joe; fishermen frequently camped there, and a rough pile pier reached a few yards into the water.
On this, Bob, Tom, the tent, some blankets and a lantern were eventually unloaded. The spice of danger set Bob’s nerves tingling. As he and Tom struggled shoreward with the tent canvas and poles, fighting the wind and the stinging spray, Bob was ready to pat himself on the back. To him, it was the finest sort of a beginning for their adventure. He even volunteered to take Jerry’s place in the boat. But Jerry, lazy and untruthful as he might be, knew his business at an oar or with a sail.
“Lucky it hasn’t rained yet,” exclaimed Tom. “We’ve got plenty of dry fiah wood. We’ll start a fiah—it’ll help us to set up the tent. Don’t get wet stuff,” he added, as Bob started one way and he the other along the shore. Bob hurried west toward the end of the spit around which the schooner had just made its way to its refuge. He could hear the rushing waves tumbling in through the pass. Wondering how far it was to the opening he ran swiftly forward a few hundred yards.
When the open beach had almost disappeared beneath the rising, foam laden waves, he knew he had partly rounded the point. But it was too dark to examine the lay of the land or the angrier growing water beyond, and he was about to turn to begin his wood collecting when he was sure he saw a moving star.
He stopped and then he knew what he was watching was a moving light. It rose and fell as if it might be on a boat. He forgot the wood and made his way forward again. It was certainly a light. Watching it intently for some minutes, Bob saw that it was moving toward the beach. At times, it disappeared beneath the crest of the waves and then rose trembling as if mounting high on the top of an incoming roller.
“It’s a boat,” said Bob to himself, “and it must be a small one. A light on a big boat wouldn’t disappear like that.”
He was about to rush back to summon his companions when he suddenly realized that the boat was in deadly peril. It was headed directly for the beach and coming toward him like the wind. At the same moment, a familiar sound reached his ears—the “chug,” “chug,” of a gasoline engine.
“It’s a power boat,” gasped Bob, “and it’s goin’ to be on the beach in about two minutes. If there are any persons in it, maybe I can help them.”
He yelled several times for Tom Allen, and at last thought he heard an answering signal. Then he attempted to warn the storm-bound craft, but the increasing wind only shot his words back. Bob forgot his numb hands and wet clothes, and, when the trembling light rose almost over the beach breakers, he rushed forward, at first knee and then waist deep, into the shattered waves, and prepared to render what assistance he could.
He was none too soon. Almost immediately, the scudding light sprang up just before him. But, as Bob tried to calculate its distance from him, a swift unbroken wave struck the boy on the breast and swept him shoreward. Thrown from his feet, he fell flat in a foot or more of water. As he struggled to recover himself, there was a crash just behind him.