“All hands bail!” roared the captain.
The command came not a moment too soon; the water was rushing in from the leeward, and the flying wreaths of foam struck the boy’s faces with a terrible force and made them smart furiously.
“Grim! Grim!” shouted Olaf, making himself heard with a difficulty above the storm, “you are carrying too much sail.”
“Hold your tongue, gosling,” Grim thundered back; “we have got nothin’ but the sail fer to save us.”
“What point are you making for?”
“The Bird Islands.”
“I thought there was no harbor there.”
“Reckon ye be right.”
“Gracious heavens!” cried Olaf, turning a terrified countenance toward his comrades; “he means to wreck the boat; but he knows what he is about. There is no other chance.”
He sat for a moment silent, gazing up into the cloud rack which scudded along at a furious rate before the wind. Strips of storm-riven sky, with momentary vistas of blue, were now and then visible, but vanished again, making the dusk more dismal by their memory.