“Whew! I must be getting into the really rough water, out toward the middle of the river. This—this is no joke!” she cried aloud wildly the next minute as a larger wave than any she had encountered yet not only boisterously showed its teeth, but seemed to fasten them cruelly in the dory, shaking the little boat until its planks creaked as she tried to turn it and drenching her from pompon to shoe-tip with spray.
“Never mind:
“‘When perils gather round,
All sense of danger’s drowned,
We despise it to a man!
We sing a little and laugh a little....’”
And even while she tried to sing and laugh the Peril was upon her.
A raving, squalling gust swooped out from that sand-fog swirling over the pale hills of the Sugarloaf; it seemed to mount in delirium to the lowering sky—from which all the sun-rays had fled to hide—and kick over a bucket of fresh water there. Then it roared as it shook its wet wings over the sea; its dripping tail struck the puny dory, just far enough out to be so struck with overwhelming force—and not all the strength of girl or boy, either, could stand or make headway against it.
“Oh-h! there goes my green Tam.” It was such a heart-broken wail, such a sob, that the wild, wet gust must have had the heart of a fiend to withstand it and sweep the green Tam O’Shanter, which depended for safety upon the clinging fit of its woven wool, mockingly away from the boat’s side.
It was beyond girl-nature not to make a frantic attempt to recover it—to row after it for a few battling strokes.