Daylight soon came to cheer the young mariners, and revealed the Canadian shore but a few miles to starboard. At two o’clock in the afternoon the “Gazelle” sailed into Port Stanley. Once safely inside, the wind rose shrieking, as if enraged because the yacht had escaped. For three days they lay at anchor, stormbound—three days that would have been much enjoyed if Kenneth had not been so anxious to go on. Food was plenty and the people kind, but the thought of the terrible winter, whose breath, even now, could be occasionally felt, urged them on and took the edge off their enjoyment in the hospitable place.
LOOKING FOR PORT STANLEY.
To Rondeau Harbor was a sixty-mile run, and when the “Gazelle” pushed her bowsprit past the protecting point of Port Stanley, it looked as if there would not be wind enough to carry her the distance by nightfall. But a fair breeze soon sprang up, and they sped along at a good pace. The lake seemed to be on its good behavior—ashamed of the temper it had shown for the last three days, perhaps. It took little at that time of year to rouse Old Erie to a howling rage. At five-ten in the afternoon the boys saw that the pleasant mood that had lasted all day was giving way to a very ugly temper, and there were six miles more to cover before shelter could be reached.
“Look at those clouds over there,” said Frank. “We’re going to have a head wind and all sorts of troubles.”
“Sure thing!” echoed Arthur.
“Oh, come off! I’ll bet you four to one we’ll be inside by six o’clock.”
Kenneth saw, too, that there was to be a high wind in the wrong direction.
“Done!” cried Frank and Arthur together. “You’re a chump, Ken. All those miles with a head wind? I guess nit.”
“You just watch your Uncle Dudley.” The skipper meant to do his level best to win his reckless wager.