"By keeping a tremendous way out," replied the Scoutmaster. "It's fairly rough, but I've known it decidedly worse. Woodleigh."
"Sir?"
"Steer straight for the headland now. There's plenty of water. We shall probably miss a lot of the race by keeping close to the cliff—twenty yards will be near enough."
"What causes a race, sir?" asked the Tenderfoot.
"The tide surging over a submerged ledge," replied Mr. Armitage. "It's deep water on both sides of the headland and only a few fathoms over the rocks extending seawards from it. Now, you fellows, all hands into the well; we don't want anyone slung overboard into the ditch."
"The dinghy, sir?" inquired Flemming.
"She won't hurt. Her painter's sound," replied the Scoutmaster. "There's enough scope to prevent her overrunning us and smashing her bows under our counter."
In another minute the Olivette was within the influence of the race. At first she began to yaw in spite of the helmsman's efforts to keep her on her course. It seemed as if a giant hand was gripping the boat's keel and playfully shaking the hull.
Then, almost without warning, a sea poured over the starboard quarter. Much of the water was checked by the coaming, but a considerable quantity found its way below, liberally besprinkling the crew. Almost immediately after, another cataract poured in over the port quarter. For a moment it felt as if the Olivette were dropping vertically, then another sea, slapping viciously against her starboard bow, threw her head off a good four points.
The helmsman ported helm to meet the deflection, but for some seconds the vessel refused to answer. Almost the whole of the rudder was out of water, while the propeller was racing madly in the air.