It did not take Desmond very long to "get the hang" of the helm. Used to small-boat sailing, he quickly found that it was quite an easy matter to keep a yacht on her course without yawing. Had the Spanker been running, it might have been rather difficult; close hauled the ketch almost sailed herself, save for an occasional touch of the helm as she tended to come up into the wind.
"That youngster knows what he's about," remarked Truscott in a low voice. "He won't get her in irons. I'll go aloft and clear the blessed sail."
Truscott was a burly fellow. He went aloft, holding on to the staysail halliards and getting a foothold on the mast-hoops. Gaining the cross-trees, he balanced himself on the slender galvanized-iron spreader and stretched for the jammed rope.
[Illustration: BOTH MEN TUMBLED ON THE CABIN-TOP Page 145.]
As he did so the weather-arm of the cross-trees gave way under his weight. So quickly did the metal-work give, that Truscott had only time to grip the topmast shroud as he fell. His grasp was sufficient to check his downward path, but the wire shroud cut deeply into his hands. He had to let go.
Wilde, seeing his companion's predicament, pluckily broke his fall. Both men tumbled in a confused heap upon the raised cabin-top, fortunately on the wind'ard side, or both might have been thrown into the sea.
Lashing the helm, Desmond hastened to their assistance. He stubbed his already injured toe upon a cleat as he did so, but in the excitement of the moment he hardly noticed that the wound had reopened.
Both men had to be assisted into the cockpit, for they were shaken by the concussion. In addition, both of Truscott's hands were lacerated across the palms, while Wilde had sustained an injury that Desmond correctly diagnosed as a broken collar-bone. It was pretty obvious to the Patrol Leader that he was the only capable hand left on board, and that upon him would devolve the management of the ship.