A high wind was steadily rising as they chugged into the vicinity of The Rocks, and it prevented Skippy from hearing that call of distress for which he was so intently listening. Whether the wind was against them, he did not know, for the howling tempest and turbulent water drowned out all other sounds.
The storm broke after a few minutes and rain lashed at them from all sides. Tully said not a word, but stayed at his wheel silent and grave. And by his averted head, Skippy knew that he, too, was listening for that siren call from the Davy Jones.
Salt spray flung itself up over the bow and into Skippy’s face. He could have moved farther back to avoid it, but he seemed incapable of action then, and sat tense and white, listening, listening....
Tully did not miss it. The boy’s tragic expression so dismayed him that he felt for the first time in his life that he should have mended his ways while there was still time. All his sins seemed to have crowded into Skippy’s face to accuse him.
And still they heard no call of distress from the Davy Jones.
Tully, desperate, raced his engine until they whistled through the foaming spray. Then suddenly they felt the keel grind under them with such force that it took all their combined strength to steady the boat and keep her from turning over.
“What happened, do you s’pose?” Skippy asked with white face.
“Sufferin’ swordfish, kid!” Tully cried. “I think she’s stove in—The Rocks! Look!”
He pointed and Skippy looked, to see a jagged hole in the bottom of the kicker. Water came in through it rapidly and even as he stared at it, it trickled over his feet and up to his ankles.