“She won’t live in them an hour,” exclaimed Rob. “Remember what happened to the Sea Horse when she went ashore off there two years ago?”
“A few of her ribs are there yet, and that’s about all,” agreed Merritt, “and she was a large vessel.”
“Wonder if the life savers at Lone Hill know about her,” exclaimed Paul. “Maybe we’d better telephone.”
“Good idea,” agreed Rob. “Is there one around here anywhere?”
“There’s one in the yacht club. I’ve got a key—we’ll use that,” said Tubby, heading a hasty dash for the clubhouse. They were soon in the gloomy, closed-up place, and Rob made for the telephone.
“Hullo, Central! Give me Quogue 212,” he said. “There’s a schooner driving ashore. * * * What? Good gracious, you don’t say so! That’s hard luck!”
“Say, fellows,” he exclaimed, turning with a downcast face from the instrument, “she says that the wires are out of order, and there’s no chance of getting the life savers.”
“Well, one of the beach patrols is bound to sight her before long,” said Merritt.
“But before long she’ll be ashore. Let’s see! Are the club field-glasses on that table? Let’s borrow them and take a look at her.”
The glasses were soon being brought to bear on the storm-stressed schooner. She was making a brave fight for it, driving eastward rapidly, and looking, from where they were observing her, to be almost in the midst of the tossing, crashing breakers.