“Yes, you can. Do exactly as I say and we’ll make it.”
Anne nodded that she understood what was expected but Madge wondered if she really had the strength to obey. She swam to the other side of the skiff and at her signal both girls slowly raised themselves up from the water. The boat wobbled dangerously but Anne appreciated the need for caution. Working deliberately, they kept the skiff upright until both were safely over the edge. Exhausted by the effort, Anne sank down in a little heap on the bottom, shivering from nervous excitement and cold. Madge resisted the temptation to drop down beside her and snatched up the oars.
“I’ll make for the island!” she cried, above the roar of the wind. “If we can reach the cove, the waves won’t be so high.”
The center of the storm appeared to have passed over, yet gigantic breakers continued to lash against the boat. The steadily falling rain made it difficult for Madge to see where she was going and she depended largely upon her instinct for direction.
“Let me help,” Anne presently offered, realizing that she was not doing her share.
“We’re almost there,” Madge returned without giving up the oars.
One glance at her companion assured her that Anne was in no condition to assist. She was a frail girl but rather pretty in spite of her bedraggled appearance. Her hair was dark and straight and her features were as regular as those of a statue. Madge judged her to be sixteen or seventeen but it was difficult to guess accurately for Anne’s sober expression undoubtedly made her look older than she actually was. Her face was drawn and strained and she appeared to be still suffering from the shock of her mishap.
A few minutes later they reached the sheltered side of Stewart Island and a flash of lightning disclosed the curving shore line. As the oars struck bottom, the girls scrambled out into the water which came only to their knees, dragging the skiff out upon shore where the waves could not reach it. They made a quick dash for the house.
In the semi-darkness it looked gloomy and depressing. It was a large, rambling affair, more like a hotel than a house, and not at all in keeping with the type of shack or cabin usually erected in the North. Branches of a tall birch tree brushed against the pointed roof and the wind whined most distressingly around the many corners of the building.
“I’d not enjoy coming here alone at night,” Madge thought.