"Land ahead!"
Shaking off his lethargy Burgoyne emerged from under the awning. For some reason he could see nothing but a red mist that swam in front of his eyes.
"Where away?" he inquired.
"Right ahead," repeated the Wireless Officer, rather astonished that Alwyn could not see what was only too clear to him: a dark line almost on the horizon.
"Land!" exclaimed Burgoyne, his normal vision returning. "That's not land, old son. It's a breeze ruffling the water, and pretty strong, too. We'll have it in a few minutes—and dead in our teeth, worse luck."
Aided by Minalto, Burgoyne quickly stowed the awning, then casting loose both sheets he awaited rather anxiously the approach of the breeze.
"Looks more like a squall," he said, half to himself. Then raising his voice he continued: "Stow the mizzen. Mostyn, you stand by the fore halliard, and douse the sail in a brace of shakes if I give the word."
Soon there was no doubt about the nature of the approaching wind. It was a white squall—one of those dangerous puffs, often attaining a strength of from forty to sixty miles an hour, that swoop down with devastating effect upon the vessel whose careless look-out has allowed it to take him unawares.
"Down foresail!" shouted Burgoyne. "We'll have to ride to a sea-anchor."
Abandoning the useless tiller, which Mostyn had already yielded to him, Alwyn sprang forward to assist the rest of the crew in preparing a floating breakwater to which the boat could with safety ride to the wind and waves. Quickly the kedge was attached to the clew of the sail, a span bent to the yard and at its centre the whole scope of the boat's painter with an additional length of rope.