There was something in his voice that made Harry Brackett hesitate no longer. He took the hatchet and smashed the lock from the staple.
“Now,” said Mr. Carleton, quickly, “we’re down ’most far enough. We’ll need some rope. There’s some light spare line up forward in the cabin, usually. You just go below and look for it. Don’t light a lantern, though. It isn’t safe yet.”
Harry Brackett stumbled below.
There were two reefs in the sail, but the wind was squally; and there was sail enough on to make the water boil around the stern, as the Viking sped swiftly onward. Harry Brackett, fumbling and groping about in the cabin, could hear the rush of the water along the yacht’s sides. They were sailing fast.
Moreover, had Harry Brackett been on deck, he would have seen, now, that they were not running down alongshore, but, instead, were standing directly out from it, and rapidly leaving it astern.
“I can’t find any rope,” he called, at length.
“Look again. It must be there,” replied Mr. Carleton.
Harry Brackett rummaged some more.
“Light a lantern if you want to,” called Mr. Carleton, finally. “We’re most ready to drop anchor now. But turn the wick down low first.”
The light glimmered for a moment or two—and then Harry Brackett, dashing out of the cabin as though he had seen an evil spirit in some dark corner, and giving one wild, terrified glance across the waters, rushed up to and confronted Mr. Carleton.