She put on the rigging, but all she got out of the air, as she sadly confessed, were sounds like an angry cat spitting at a puppydog.
“It isn’t just static,” she told Amy. “You try it. There is something absolutely wrong with this thing. See! We don’t get a spark.”
“If we did we couldn’t read the letters.”
“I believe I could read some Morse if it came slowly enough,” said Jessie, nodding. “But it is sending, not receiving, I am thinking of, Amy Drew.”
Amy began to look more serious. Jessie was harping on a possibility she did not wish to admit was probable. She went out and, hunting up Darry, demanded to know just how bad he thought they were off, anyway.
“Well, Sis, there is no use making a wry face about it,” the collegian said. “But you see how hard the Reverend and Burd are working, and they can’t keep ahead of the water. The poor old Marigold really is leaking.”
“Is she going to sink? Can’t we get to land—somewhere? Can’t we go back to the island?”
“Shucks, Sis! You know we are miles from Station Island. We are off Montauk—or we were this morning. But we are heading out to sea now—sou’-sou’east. Can’t head into this gale. She pitches too much.”
“And—and isn’t there any help for us, Darry Drew?”
“We don’t need any help yet, do we?” he demanded pluckily. “She is making good weather of it——”