“What’s the trouble, old ma——”
Frank stopped in the middle of the word as he caught sight of the black bulk of the schooner, slowly bearing down upon them. Scarcely twenty feet of worried and wind-swept water separated the two vessels.
Nearer and nearer she came, until, to the excited eyes of the crew, it seemed as if the big boat would swallow the smaller one whole.
The mate went forward, a big clasp knife in hand, to cut the cable, if that extreme move became necessary.
CHESAPEAKE BAY.
Kenneth had shouted to the captain of the schooner at the outset, and all hands were trying everything to stop her backward progress. There was no time to raise sails and beat out of the danger, and it certainly looked as if the “Gazelle” would be crushed like an egg-shell, or else cut adrift to run the very probable chances of being dashed against the spiles of the piers.
It was a strange situation. In the harbor, between two populous cities, Norfolk and Portsmouth; in the midst of a large fleet of seaworthy boats, humming with life, one great bully of a vessel was slowly closing down on a smaller one. Tens of thousands of people almost within call, yet none could stir hand or foot to help. Nor could the crew of either craft do aught to prevent imminent peril.
The “Gazelle” tugged at her moorings, as if she realized the danger, and longed eagerly to be free.
The crew of the schooner hung over the rail aft, watching the narrowing strip of water.