Of a sudden a dull, grating tremor passed through the staunch little boat.
“Wha-what happened,” she gasped. They had reached the crest of a wave. Now their boat was gliding backward. The darkness was intense. Peer as she might, she could see nothing save the dim outline of Katie’s body.
“It’s the rock,” Katie’s voice was deathly calm. “That wave was not high. The next will be higher. We will be carried onto the rocks. We must jump. It is our chance.”
She did not say, “Our only chance.” Florence knew it all the same. At that moment she was thankful for slacks and sneaks. They would improve her chance.
“Katie!” she cried, “The rock! Is it high?”
“Who knows? We must jump. Now—” Katie caught a long breath. “Now we are going up. Now—” There came a shuddering grind much more terrible than the first. “Now jump! And run—run away from the sea.”
Gripping the gunwale, Florence vaulted over the side, struck a slippery rock, all but fell, then, regaining her footing dashed with the energy of despair up the slanting rock.
Had not the stout Katie gripped her arm just in time, she must have dashed quite across the rock and have fallen down the steep side into the boiling water below.
As for Katie, there was no chance of over-valuing her wisdom at such a time.
“Come!” she cried, once her companion had regained a little of her composure, “That great wave left our boat on the rock. There will be three small ones, then perhaps a greater one. We must save our boat if we can. You on one side, I on the other, we must slide it higher.”