The great vessel squeezed the yacht even tighter, and the boys could feel the deck under their feet bent upward by the pressure.
It was intolerable. Kenneth’s vessel was actually being destroyed under him and no move of his could prevent it.
Beside himself with despair and rage, he shouted at the blank wall of the grain boat, and in blind fury put his hands against it and pushed—his puny strength against a thousand tons.
“It’s a wonder you boys don’t go to sleep after a day on the path.” The speaker’s head showed over the rail of the barge.
The fearful mockery of his words drove poor Kenneth almost crazy, and he shouted at the man words that had no meaning—inarticulate sounds that voiced his agony.
Still the crush continued, until the yacht was forced almost out of water and her deck was squeezed into a sharp, convex curve. The poor boat groaned, as if in pain.
The man on the barge looked down on the terrified boys calmly, stupidly; perfectly aware that by no act of his could he avert the catastrophe.
But still the pressure continued. The boys gathered their scattered wits together, and, with energy that seemed futile even as they called, shouted for help.
Then came an answering shout, a sound of moving feet on the grain barge’s deck, a sharp, urging call to a team, the snap of a whiplash. The barge began to slide off, and the “Gazelle,” released from the powerful grip, settled down. Kenneth and his friends stood poised, ready to spring ashore when the vessel—her seams opened to the flood—should sink.
With a slowness that was nerve-racking, the iron monster moved away until the yacht was wholly released; with a groan that was like a sigh of relief she settled to her normal water line, bobbed up and down a little, as if to adjust herself to her more comfortable position, and floated quietly and safe.