The first island was long and narrow—a mere windrow of rock and sand breaking the force of the sea. The huge combers coursing up its strand broke twenty feet high and offered nothing but utter destruction to any small craft that attempted a landing.
"That is no welcome coast," Mr. MacMasters said. "I wonder if we shouldn't have gone behind the islands after all, in spite of the reefs."
But it was too late to change their plans now. The first strait that opened between the islands was a mass of white water.
The raft was clumsy, and the yawl could make but slow headway. Suddenly the wind fell; but with its falling the sea began to rise.
"What does it look like to you, Mr. Mudge?" Ensign MacMasters asked the officer on the raft.
"More trouble. The wind's going to spring on us from a new quarter," was the reply. "See yonder!"
Away to the northwest a cloud seemed rolling upon the very surface of the sea it was so low. At its foot, at least, the sea sprang up in a foamy line to meet the pallid cloud. There was a moaning in the air, but distant.
"That's going to hit us hard!" cried Mr. MacMasters. "It's more than an ordinary gale."
"That's what it is, sir," admitted Mudge.
"Wish we were ashore!" shouted the ensign.