“What’s the matter?” he roared. “Curse that dummy! Has he lost his wits?”
Finally the yacht came drifting with the waves, the sail hanging loose, and grounded with a crunching sound on the gravelly bottom.
The Reverend Mr. Withers was standing in the bow, grasping the mast, his hat gone, his hair flying in the wind, and his face expressing the utmost terror. Luke Felton was not to be seen.
In answer to a loud demand for explanation, mingled with many oaths, Mr. Withers replied:
“Oh, my dear sir, the most terrible catastrophe has happened! While off the point yonder a terrific squall, or something, came up, and the boat wheeled around in amost unaccountable way. Poor Mr. Felton was struck by this projecting piece of timber—yard-arm, do you call it?—and knocked into the water.”
“The blundering hound!” ejaculated Roake. “What was he about?”
“Indeed I cannot tell, sir. He seemed to be possessed of great skill——”
“Blast his skill! Was he drowned? Couldn’t you pick him up?”
“Do not ask me that. The boat was driven along with frightful velocity, and the poor, unfortunate creature has, I fear, met his fate——”
Roake interrupted the speaker with another volley of oaths, for which he received a mild reproof.