“I hope not,” Ralph rejoined, shaking his head fearsomely.
“Why?” La Rue was scared. It was plain enough in his voice, which was nervous and jerky. “Are—are we in any danger?” he demanded tremblingly.
“The—the very g-g-g-greatest,” exclaimed Ralph, cleverly acting the part of a seriously alarmed young skipper.
“You mean that if the storm does not die down we may be wrecked?”
“The storm will get a lot worse before it gets any better,” rejoined Ralph. “This is one of the worst nights I have ever seen on the river.”
The River Swallow gave a fearful roll, almost burying her lee gunwale in flying spume. An exclamation that was almost a shriek burst from La Rue’s lips. The man was ashen pale. He was terrified, and, moreover, he was becoming conscious of another feeling. What this was, we shall see before long.
“Gracious! I thought we were gone that time!” cried Ralph, appearing to be on the verge of panic.
“Then there is a pup-pup-possibility that the boat may capsize?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ralph gravely.
A groan escaped La Rue.