The motor hummed rhythmically. Tobias stood at the steering wheel amidships, holding the spokes with iron hand, while Lorna crouched almost at his feet. They had not attempted to light any running lights. Collision with any other craft after they got out of the cove was the last thing to be apprehended. Tobias's lantern was beside the girl in the cockpit. The old man's vision seemed to penetrate the darkness and driving spindrift as though he were argus-eyed.
In Lorna's stooping position she could see nothing ahead. When she cast her gaze astern all she beheld was the foaming wake left by the propeller. Such an angry welter of sea she had never before been out in.
Suddenly the motor-boat yawed, and a wave slapped against the upheaving hull, bursting over the whole length of the craft. The cockpit was half full in a moment; but fortunately the mechanism was built high enough to save it from being flooded. Lorna was saturated above her waist.
Tobias righted the Fenique instantly. He grinned down at the girl after a moment.
"That was some sockdolager, heh?" he bawled. "I vow to man! another one o' them and she'll be down to her gunnels."
But this misfortune did not overtake them. Lorna knew by the increased height of the waves that they were now opposite the unsheltered entrance to Clinkerport Bay. Here the waves rolled in massively—great, round-backed combers that ran far up the bay.
Tobias had to twist the bow of the motor-boat to meet these swells; but once over the crest of one, he ran the Fenique slantingly down the slope and in the trough between the two great waves, like a water-bug scampering along the crack of a kitchen table.
Between every wave they made headway. The tall bluff of Dickson Point loomed out of the murk ahead. Tobias waved his hand when he saw Lorna rise to look.
"There she be!" he bawled. "Please the good Lord we'll make it."
But he read, as her own lips moved, the anxious question: