CHAPTER XXI
Good Old Hamerton!
Smith's first act was to put the helm hard down, but so fierce was the wind and so stunning the blows of the steep, crested waves that the yacht soon lost way. She wallowed sluggishly in the trough of the sea, cascades of water pouring over her on all sides. A crash, just audible above the roar of the elements, announced that one of the panes of the cabin skylight had been broken.
"Up with the mizen!" shouted the skipper.
There was no time to reef the sail. Staggering upon the wedge-shaped part of the deck abaft the mizen-mast, Smith tore frantically at the sail-tyers, while the boom charged to and fro with the force of a sledge-hammer as far as the scope of the sheet permitted.
Wellnigh breathless he regained the cockpit.
"Haul up!" he bawled.
Flapping with a series of whip-like cracks the stout canvas was hoisted. The men expected every moment to see the sail split asunder and the mast go bodily over the side. It was with feelings of relief that they saw the sorely pressed craft swing round head to wind without the threatened calamities taking place.
"We're all right for a bit," gasped Smith. "Where's the Boxer?"
As he spoke a searchlight flashed out of the darkness. For a few moments it swung in a more or less horizontal direction, as far as the erratic motion of the destroyer permitted; but as soon as the beam fell upon the Diomeda the light was immediately screened.