“For heaven’s sake, luff—luff!” he cried to Frank. “Art’s overboard.”
The boat shot up into the wind and lay there quivering, while Kenneth, dread lying like a weight on his heart, sought for his friend.
“What’s the trouble?” a voice called from the other side of the boat. “Anybody hurt?”
“For heaven’s sake, where are you, Art?”
“Over here. What’s the trouble?”
“My, but I’m glad you’re O. K.! Thought you were overboard, sure.”
“Oh, I guess it was that wooden fender you heard; it went over in that last jump.”
The “Gazelle” went better under her reduced canvas, and reeled off the miles like the steady sea-boat she was.
“Well, we did not see much worse sea on the ocean, did we, boys?” Kenneth had a sort of pride in his native waters, and took satisfaction even in its rough moods.
They were certainly formidable. Short, high, and following one another in quick succession, the waves tossed the yacht about as a man is thrown in a blanket.