“Feel better, Dad?”
“Yes, thanks.” He paused a moment, then continued in his normal tone. “The plane doesn’t seem to be pitching so wildly—”
“No, the wind is increasing steadily, and flattening out the water.”
“Isn’t there something we can do now?”
“Yes. It’s getting pretty wet in here. Give me a hand with this tarpaulin, please.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Batten down the cockpit cover.”
“But, my boy!” Mr. Bolton’s voice showed a trace of nervousness for the first time. “If we put the cover on the cockpit, we’ll be drowned like rats in a trap if the plane goes down. I confess I’m not keen on the idea.”
“If the plane founders, we’ll drown anyway,” was his son’s business-like reply. “No swimmer could live more than a minute in water like this. We’re in a tight fix, Dad, and our only chance is to ride out the gale. This plane will sink like a stone, once the real hurricane hits us, unless she is pretty near watertight overall. Let’s get busy before the wind makes the job impossible.”
“I guess you’re skipper,” Mr. Bolton replied, and he hastened to comply with Bill’s request.