"Any chance, that you see?"
They were off the coast of the second island now. That was heavily wooded and the shore was more broken. But it seemed as inhospitable as that of the one of wider beach.
The newly risen gale was yet a long way from them, the low moaning of the tempest seemed distant.
The swell beneath the yawl's keel suddenly heaved into a gigantic wave upon the summit of which the boat was lifted like a chip in a mill-stream.
Some of the crew shouted aloud, in both amazement and fear. The propeller raced madly; then the engine stopped—dead.
"Out oars! Look alive, men!" was the ensign's command.
The clumsy raft tugged at the end of her hawse. The yawl went over the top of the wave and began to coast dizzily down the descent.
The rope which held it to its tow cut through the swell. It tautened—it snapped!
The loose end whipped the length of the yawl viciously and threw two of the crew flat into the boat's bottom.
The oars were out. Ensign MacMasters yelled an order to pull. Philip Morgan and Al Torrance found themselves throwing their entire strength against the oars.