At last to his satisfaction he felt the horny spike giving. After that it moved easily. Peter pushed its point completely clear of the boat, but the next instant the water poured in with redoubled violence, a phosphorescent waterspout rising a good eight or ten inches above the kelson.
Seizing a piece of canvas Peter wedged it into the gaping hole. The inflow was appreciably checked, but in order to withstand the pressure it was necessary for some one to hold the "stopper" in position, until repairs of a more substantial nature could be effected.
Calling to one of the lascars, Peter bade him carry on with the plugging process.
Hot, wellnigh breathless, and spent with his exertions, Peter sat up. He glanced aft. The feeble light from the binnacle showed him that Olive was at the helm, calm and collected. Throughout the anxious five minutes she had kept the boat on her course with the skill of a master-mind—a vivid contrast to the hysterical woman whose incapacity in a tight corner belied her oft-repeated statement as to her naval forbears.
And during that five minutes the breeze had freshened considerably. Already the seas were breaking viciously, their white crests showing ominously in the darkness. Another peril faced the crew. Could the badly strained and leaking boat withstand the onslaught of the threatened storm?
CHAPTER XXXI
Picked up at Sea
"I'll attend to the leak, Peter," volunteered Olive. "That will leave you free to shorten sail."
"Topping!" exclaimed Mostyn. "Keep your foot on that pad of canvas. Don't press too hard or the whole gadget may carry away."