Kenneth jumped overboard, clothes and all, followed by Frank and Arthur. Putting their shoulders to the yawl’s stem, they pushed with might and main. At length the heavy boat moved, and, as in New York Harbor, they pushed, walking after till the yacht floated clear and they had to hold on to keep from sinking. Through the clear water the rocks lurked just under the surface in every direction, and only by the most careful manœuvring could the yacht be sailed to safety. The sails were hoisted once more, Kenneth took the helm, and, after a time, Frank and Arthur went below to put on some dry clothes. The October wind blew keen and sharp, the skipper, crouching in the stern to present as little surface to it as possible, thought he would freeze to death—his wet clothes stuck to him and the cold wind seemed to go directly to his vitals.
“H-h-h-hurry up!” he shouted to the boys below through his chattering teeth. “I-i-i-i’ll sh-sh-shake the boat to p-p-p-pieces if you don’t g-g-g-get a m-m-m-move on.”
By this time the “Gazelle” was clear of all danger, and was coasting over the rollers at splendid speed.
As the day wore on the wind increased in force, and the lake, true to its reputation, was lashed into waves both high and short. It was the kind of sea that makes a small boat like the yawl pitch and toss most uncomfortably; but, in spite of it all, she made good speed. With a clear course ahead, though the weather was threatening, Kenneth kept on for Port Stanley, on the Canadian shore. About two-thirty in the morning the skipper calculated that the light marking the harbor they sought should be visible, but not a sign of it could Arthur, on lookout duty, see. The skipper, in spite of the tossing sea, shinned the mast, and from its elevation caught a glimpse of the gleaming light.
Coming down on deck, he shouted to Frank at the wheel: “We’re over-canvassed; we’ll have to reef down.”
The wind made it hard for him to be heard.
“Reef in this sea? You’re crazy, you can’t do it!”
“We’ve got to do it,” the captain answered. “Art, give us a hand on the mainsail.”
The mate obeyed, and together they crawled forward. Dark as pitch, they had to work by sense of touch alone. Each knew the position of every line, every rope, as he knew the location of his eyes and his mouth, but the choppy sea made it impossible to stand an instant unaided. Arthur gripped the standing rigging with his legs as he lowered the mainsail, and Kenneth clung desperately to the boom as he began to tie the reef points.
The “Gazelle” jumped and thrashed about like a bucking horse, and the darkness enveloped everything. Of a sudden, the boat gave an awful lurch, and Kenneth heard a sudden thump against the yacht’s side and all was still. Instantly he missed Arthur—nowhere could he be seen.