"Sea-anchor again, I suppose," soliloquized the skipper of the boat. "Beat and beat and beat again, then drift to lee'ard all we've made. We'll fetch somewhere some day, I expect."
He rather blamed himself for not having put the helm up directly the previous gale had blown itself out. Running before the easterly breeze would have brought the boat within sight of the Mozambique coast before now. On the other hand, how was he to know that the easterly breeze would hold for so many hours? It rarely did.
"It's a gamble," he thought philosophically. "I've backed the wrong horse. I've got to see this business through."
Once more the tent was struck. This time Mrs. Shallop, who had taken possession when Olive came out, made no audible protest. Possibly she was too busy eating Turkish delight. In that respect she acted upon the principle of "Never leave till to-morrow what you can eat to-day".
The sea-anchor was prepared ready to heave overboard. Loose gear was secured, and the baler placed in a convenient spot to commence operations should a particularly vicious sea break into the boat.
Darkness set in. No stars were visible to mitigate the intense blackness of the night. The candle-lamp of the boat-compass had to be lighted in order to enable the helmsman to keep the craft on her course. Its feeble rays faintly illuminated Peter's face as he steered. Beyond that it was impossible to distinguish anybody or anything in the boat, the bows of which were faintly silhouetted against the ghostly phosphorescence of the foam thrown aside by the stem.
So far there was no necessity to ride to the sea-anchor. The wind, slightly increasing in force, demanded another reef in the mainsail. No doubt the boat would have stood a whole mainsail, but Peter was too cautious and experienced to risk "cracking on" in a lightly trimmed craft unprovided with a centreboard or even a false keel.
The two lascars were told off to tend the halliards, Mahmed stood by the mainsheet, while Peter steered. The latter, his senses keenly on the alert, was listening intently for the unmistakable shriek that presages the sweeping down of a squall. In the utter darkness the sense of hearing was the only means of guarding against being surprised by a violent and overpowering blast of wind.
"It may not be so bad after all," he remarked to Olive, who had insisted on keeping by him at the tiller. "There's rain. I expected it. Luckily it's after the wind, so the chances are we've seen the worst of it."
It was now nearly ten o'clock. The boat had been footing it strongly, since Peter had eased her off a point. The seas were high—so high that between the crests the boat was momentarily becalmed. Yet, thanks to Mostyn's helmsmanship, she carried way splendidly, until the ascent of the on-coming crest enabled the wind-starved canvas to fill out again.