“Why don’t we celebrate?” said Frank in an aggrieved tone.
Three rousing cheers and a tiger rang out in response, and several rounds were fired from the ship’s miniature cannon, which made up in fuss what it lacked in feathers.
It was good to be sailing on the broad Atlantic, where the sandbars ceased to trouble and the mosquito did not exist. The water traversed was constantly changing. Inland sound succeeded open gulf, and boundless ocean followed inland waters. There was no danger of monotony, for the problems of navigation were constantly arising to the young navigators. Hour after hour the yacht sailed along, rising and falling on the swinging sea. The land was a mere irregular line on the horizon, which disappeared now and then as a rising hill of water hid it from the sight of the crew.
As the sun sank over the distant land, the clouds arose until they formed a black mass that shut out the light and cast a heavy gloom over all.
“We’re in for the usual Fourth of July storm, I guess.” The captain looked rather anxiously at the gathering clouds.
“Can we make harbor before it strikes us?” Arthur inquired.
“We’ll try it,” Kenneth answered, and suiting the action to the word, he eased his sheets and headed directly for shore.
The force of the wind increased as they drew nearer the shore; they were flying along in company with the scraps of water snatched from the wave crests. The clouds grew heavier and more dense, and the light fainter and fainter, until the boys could no longer make out the marks leading to harbor.
For a few minutes Kenneth held on the same course; then, as the light grew dimmer and dimmer, and the wind gathered weight every minute, he wondered whether it would be possible to make harbor.
“We’ll be on shore in a minute, and I can hardly make out that point now,” the skipper said as he looked long into the gloom. “I would rather be out at sea than near an unknown coast with an on-shore gale like this blowing; are you with me, boys?”