A moon had risen now, and in the silvery light the darker water of the shoals, of which the creek seemed full, showed plainly.
“This crik’s as full of sand-bars as a hound dorg is uv fleas,” grunted Jim Dale. “It won’t be full tide for two hours or more, either. If——”
There came a sudden, grinding jar.
“Hard over! Hard over!” bellowed Jim Dale.
Freeman Hunt spun the wheel like a squirrel in its cage. But it was too late. The sloop had grounded hard and fast. Leaving Peter Bumpus to guard the boys, Jim Dale and the elder Hunt leaped swiftly aft. They backed the motor, but it was no use. The sloop was too hard aground to be gotten off till the water rose.
“Two hours to wait till the tide rises,” grumbled Jim Dale; “just like the luck.”
Slowly the time passed. But never for an instant was the watch over the boys relaxed. Tubby lay still, and Hiram, almost carried out of himself by the rapid rush of recent events, leaned miserably against the stay.
At last, just as a faint, gray light began to show in the east, they could feel the sloop moving under their feet. With reversed motor, she was backed off the sand-bar, or mud-shoal, and the journey resumed. As the light grew stronger, Hiram saw that they were dropping rapidly down toward the sea. Right ahead of them could now be seen the white foam and spray, where the breakers of the open sea were shattering themselves on the bar at the mouth of the creek.
The channel was narrow and intricate, but Jim Dale, who seemed to be a good pilot, and who had assumed the wheel, brought the sloop through it in safety. Before long, under her keel could be felt the long lift and drive of the open Atlantic.
By gazing at the sun, Hiram saw that the sloop’s head was pointed west. By this he judged that her navigators meant to head down the Long Island shore toward New York.