"Mast-head, there! Can you make out the entrance?" hailed my father.
"Aye, aye, sir—a point on the port bow."
"Then let her go," remarked the pater to the quartermaster. "We must get inside the reef before dark. Mr. Wilkins," he added, addressing the bos'n, "have the anchors cleared away, and keep the lead going."
"No bottom at twenty fathoms," reported the bos'n, after a few casts had been made.
Presently we on deck could distinguish a dark break in the turmoil of foaming water; it was the channel into the lagoon.
"Now or never!" exclaimed the quartermaster, who had relieved the man at the wheel, and was now steering straight for the gap. There was not a breath of wind, and had the "Fortuna" depended solely upon her sails we would have had to bring up till the breeze came, and with it, possibly a heavier sea on the reef.
"If the motor plays us false we are done for," remarked Uncle Herbert, who was anxiously regarding the smother of foam on either bow.
"Never fear; it has served us faithfully up to the present," replied my father. "Another five minutes will settle it."
Straight for the gap the "Fortuna" sped under full power, not a sound being heard above the loud roar of the breakers and the quick pulsations of the engine. On the crest of a huge wave she appeared to hang, then, plunging into the trough, her propeller raced, and her head fell off towards the reef. The spokes flew through the quartermaster's hands, and the staunch little yacht recovered herself, with tons of water pouring from her fo'c'sle. The next moment her stern sank deeply in the waves, the propeller gripped, and with a terrific lurch the "Fortuna" passed between the coral reefs and gained the shelter of the quiet lagoon. The anchor was let go, and, with a rush and a roar, the chain tore through the hawse-pipe, and the yacht brought up in six fathoms.
We had arrived at "San Philipo" Island.