"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. It moves as we move, only more steadily. It is some vessel," declared Dave. "I wouldn't wonder if it was the Swallow."
The mere conjecture excited Daley greatly. The men worked at the oars again. This, however, proved lost energy. When it resulted in one of the oars being torn from the grasp of its holder, and cast adrift into the sea, Daley uttered a heart-rending groan.
One of his mates, however, suggested something--this was to use his coat as a kind of sail. He and the other oarsman attempted this.
"We're going in the direction of the light, sure," cried Daley jubilantly.
"We're going down!" shouted the man who had suggested the impromptu sail.
Dave saw that all was over. Whether the use of the sail hastened the situation, or the little craft would have been overturned anyway by the gigantic wind that suddenly struck it, he had no time to conjecture.
In an instant the yawl was raised by a mighty force. It flopped over flat, spilling out all hands.
Dave saw his companions hurled from his sight like disappearing phantoms. His hand was held by the wrist in a rope loop he had clung to for protection since waking up.
Dave went over with the boat, under with it, and was unable to disentangle his wrist. His arm seemed broken. He was whipped about in a frightful manner.