“Hard aport!” cried Nelson. Will obeyed, and Nelson seized the jib sheet. Slowly, prancing and rolling, the sloop’s head came around. The sound of surf was plainly to be heard.
“It’s that blamed old island!” growled Dan. Nelson nodded, his eyes on the boat. She began to draw away on her new tack, but it was slow work. At times the surf sounded almost beside them, at times it became faint and distant, as the wind lulled or increased. Two or three minutes passed during which the Four, standing and peering through the rain with straining eyes, waited the outcome. Then, [suddenly, the boat’s head swirled around], Tom and Dan were thrown into a heap against the side of the cockpit, and the water streamed in over the washboard. Barry yelped with terror, and Will joined him.
[“Suddenly the boat’s head swirled around.”]
“She’s goin’ over!” he cried. “She’s sinkin’!”
“Cut it out!” thundered Nelson. “Get back there! Take that tiller! What did you leave it for?”
“I—I forgot!” whined Will.
“Forgot! Great Scott! I’d like to—to— Hard over now! Port, you idiot, port!”
But the water was shoaling every instant and, try as he might, Nelson could not get the boat’s head about. The sound of the pounding surf increased, and the water about them leaped and dashed. The sloop was blown, tossing and rolling, on through a maelstrom of angry white waters.
“Get that jib down, Dan!” called Nelson, and, clutching and swaying, struggled to the bow. Down came the fluttering, whipping canvas, and, with a heave, Nelson sent the anchor over. The sloop drifted side on for a space, and then pointed her nose to the tempest.