“What?” demanded Nelson angrily.
“I don’t know where we are,” muttered the other.
“Well, do you think I do? You take hold here or we’ll pitch you overboard.”
Will crept back and took the tiller, his face white with fright.
“Hold her where she is,” said Nelson. “Where was that land the last time you saw it, Dan?”
“About over there,” answered Dan, pointing.
“That’s what I think. Starboard a little, Will! That’ll do; hold her so! We’ll keep her into the wind as much as we can. I wonder whether that old jib is doing us any good. Wish I knew more about sailboats. If this was a launch, I could manage her. Keep your eyes open, you fellows. We may strike Brooklyn or Jersey City any old moment.”
The worst of the rain passed, but the wind held on fiercely. Now and then, or so they thought, they caught glimpses of the land to the southeast of them, apparently about two miles distant.
“One thing’s certain,” said Nelson presently. “We won’t see Peconic to-night. We must be two or three miles past that place already. Isn’t there an island down ahead somewhere?” he asked of Will.
“Yes, sir, Robin’s Island.”