“Here they come. Nail ’em. There’s the first one. Got a mask on. Get him!”
That was all he heard, for a stunning blow crashed on his head; he staggered, fell, then all was dark.
CHAPTER XII
THE O MOO RIDES THE STORM
Florence and Marian lay clinging to the bare springs of a berth. They had made that point of safety before the avalanche of furniture, books and bric-a-brac had reached their end of the cabin. They were enduring discomforts beyond description. The yacht was now pitching from side to side in an alarming fashion. The wires of the spring on which they rested cut their tender flesh. Their scant clothing was saturated with cold water. The cabin had grown cold. Since the burning of the electric fuses, there was no heat. They were chilled to the bone, yet they dared not move. The heavy furniture, pitching about as it did, was a deadly menace. Here, above it all, they were safe.
As Florence lay there, benumbed with cold, suffering agonies of suspense, listening to the thud and smash of furniture, the rush and crush of waves that washed the deck, awaiting the crash which was to be the final one, only one question occupied her mind: How and when would the final moment come? She dared not hope that the O Moo would ride such a storm safely.
“Would the O Moo,” she asked herself, “turn turtle in the trough of a wave and, floating, mast down, would she hold them there to drown like rats in a cage? Or would some giant wave stave her in to sink to the bottom like a water-soaked log?”
An answer was postponed. The O Moo rode bravely on. They were in the worst of it; she was sure of that. “Ought to get the engine started,” she told herself. “Then we could cut the waves; ride them, not wallow along in a trough.”
She half rose to attempt to reach the engine room.
“No use,” she groaned; “no light. If we fool around with gasoline and a candle we’ll blow the whole thing up.”
But even as she thought this, she became conscious of a dim light. What could it be? She sat up quickly, then she uttered a hoarse laugh.