"Ho!" sniffed Mr. Bangs. But just then a quick gust of wind swept over them, such as comes without warning in pond waters, bordered by hills. Mr. Bangs seemed to take the hint it conveyed. "Guess we'd better start," he said.
The boys sprang to the halyards; the sails were hoisted and the anchor got aboard. With Mr. Bangs at the tiller, the Flyaway started on the beat of two miles down the pond. The wind continued to freshen, coming now and then in flaws, as the light clouds overspread the sky.
Henry Burns, noting the style of Mr. Bangs's yachtsmanship, and observing the freshening of the wind, and the fact that the craft was not being worked to windward anywhere near what it would go, slipped astern beside Mr. Bangs.
"Like to have me tend that sheet for you?" he asked, carelessly.
Mr. Bangs waved him back. "Don't touch that, my lad," he cried. "You might upset us in a minute. Never let a boy fool with a sheet—hello!"
A sharper and heavier flaw caught the big mainsail with full force; and then, as Mr. Bangs in his excitement threw the tiller over and headed the yacht farther off the wind, instead of up into it, the Flyaway heeled dangerously, taking water over the side and causing the pug dog, which got a drenching, to howl dolorously. Mrs. Bangs gave a slight scream.
"Oh, it's all right. Don't be alarmed," said Mr. Bangs, assuringly. He failed to notice that prompt action on the part of Henry Burns, who had started the sheet at the critical moment, had saved them from a spill; and seemed to think that somehow he had righted things himself. However, as he observed that youth calmly trimming the sail again, despite his admonition to let the sheet alone, he seemed to have undergone a change of heart.
"That's right," he said, in a tone of not quite so much confidence, "you just run that thing, while I do the steering."
It began to get rough now, and the Flyaway did not seem to justify it's owner's praise. It threw the water heavily—partly by reason of its clumsy build and partly because Mr. Bangs did not meet the waves with the tiller. One might have observed, moreover, that Mr. Bangs wore an anxious expression, and his hand shook slightly as he pressed the tiller.
A moment more, and he seemed almost dazed as the tiller was snatched from his grasp by Henry Burns, who put the Flyaway hard up into the wind, just in time to meet a squall that threw the lee rail under again. The craft stood still, almost, with the sail shivering. Then Henry Burns eased her off gently, getting her under headway again. Mr. Bangs was deathly pale. The spray had dashed aboard freely and drenched him.