Harry Brackett seized the halyards. The yacht Viking went on its course again. But precious moments had been lost.
The man’s face was something fearful to look into. He threw the wheel over and back, as though he would twist it apart. But he uttered not a word.
Now they were running near a thin chain of islands. Mr. Carleton brought forth a chart and spread it out upon the cockpit floor, with the lantern on one corner.
“Do you know this bay at all?” he inquired, suddenly.
“Ye-es,” answered the boy. “Those are the Pine Islands just ahead, I think.”
“Right,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “I thought so. I’ll go through like a book.”
Presently he muttered something else, inaudible to Harry Brackett—and mercifully so. “I’ll do it,” he said. “The boy’s in the way. I’ve got to go it alone.”
It was quiet water in the channel between the islands, and the Viking skimmed through like a phantom yacht.
“Here, hold this wheel,” said Mr. Carleton, suddenly, turning to Harry Brackett. “Keep her just as she’s going.”
As the boy obeyed, Mr. Carleton seized the line by which the rowboat was towing and drew it up close astern.