“Keep that sheet clear of everything,” cried Grant, who usually assumed command in every crisis. “Let it run free whatever you do.”
“You hurry with that sail,” retorted Fred.
“They’re doing their best I guess,” said John.
“If they don’t get it down soon we’ll go over,” cried Fried. “I can hardly hold her now.”
“Can I help you, Grant?” asked John, striving to make his way forward. The boom, however, swung violently back and forth threatening to knock him overboard every second. It was almost impossible to keep out of its way in the tiny catboat.
“Go sit down,” cried Grant. “We’ll get it down in a second.”
The rain now fell in torrents. The wind whistled and shrieked all about them and it seemed as if at any moment the sail must be torn to shreds and the mast ripped from its socket. Lucky it was that Fred was an experienced sailor and endowed with nerve as well. The squall drove the boat backwards but Fred managed to keep her nose pointed straight into the teeth of the gale. Otherwise the Balsam could not have lived two minutes.
“Why don’t they hurry with that sail?” exclaimed Fred peevishly.
“They are hurrying,” said John. “The ropes are wet and they’re nervous.”
“Ah, there it comes,” cried Fred suddenly. “Now we’ll stand a chance.”