“The engine’s stopped!” cried Frank.
Even as the words left his lips the giant comber caught the boat’s stern. It raised her up and up till she seemed fairly to stand erect on her bow, stern in air. For an imperceptible segment of time she remained so.
The next second she was blotted out of existence in a mighty vortex of water.
Before the cry of horror at the swift tragedy that had been enacted before them had died from the boys’ lips the wave broke on the shore.
With a crash like the explosion of a powder magazine it smashed itself on the beach and a mighty inrush of water followed. The spray of its landing flew as high as the tree-tops.
“A good thing we’re up here,” cried Billy, as the water came swirling through the jungle beneath them.
“A good thing we hauled the canoes up, you mean,” said Frank, as he anxiously watched the frail craft—as far inland as they lay—picked up like feathers and dashed about by the inroad of the sea. To his relief, however, they survived their buffeting undamaged, thanks to their extra strong construction.
The water rushed back down the sloping shore of the island as swiftly as it had advanced. A few minutes later they were able to descend and hurry to the beach. There was no danger of a second monster wave Ben assured them.
They suddenly realized though that they were dripping wet through from the torrential downpour that had accompanied the storm, but their anxiety to see if any trace of the motor-boat or her occupants reappeared prevailed over their discomfort. They stood on the beach scouring the sea with burning eyes, but it was empty of life. They remained silently gazing before them for several minutes—it was Ben who broke the silence:
“What about the Carrier Dove? Has the wave struck her?” were the words that brought them all out of their reverie with an anxious start.