“Four bells!” he announced at length, stirring the torpid Heavitree with his foot. “You turn in, now, old son, and tell Peter to come on watch.”
“Where are we?” asked Craddock, as he gained the cockpit.
Brandon told him, adding the information that the flood tide had now set in.
“Haven’t touched the tiller for the last four hours,” he remarked. “We’re just drifting. This is where a motor would come in handy. Well, thank goodness, this isn’t the Doldrums, and we ought to get a breeze soon.”
At length came that “darkest hour before the dawn,” when human vitality is supposed to be at its lowest ebb. Through the stillness of the night came a low rumble.
“What’s that?” asked Peter. “Thunder?”
“Don’t think so,” replied his chum. “It’s too prolonged.”
They listened. The sound continued and seemed to increase in volume until it reached a distinct rumbling roar.
“It must be the Race,” declared Brandon. “Of course it’s still a long way off, but we’re being carried into it.”
“What’s to be done?” asked Peter. “Anchor?”