The goal was in plain sight, and Kenneth took his place at the helm, determined to be on a line at least with those piers by six o’clock. The wind was rising steadily and swinging more and more ahead. The yacht, seeming to realize what was expected of her, settled down to her work and slipped off into the eye of the breeze like a witch. Each minute the wind hauled more and more ahead, until the boat, her sheets already closely trimmed, seemed to sail right square into the teeth of it. The gray bulkhead was yet a long way off, and the minutes were slipping by at an alarming rate. Arthur grinned as he called out, “Five-thirty.”
It was a race against time with a vengeance. More than the settling of a friendly wager was involved. The clouds to the southwest had an ugly look, and the line of dull gray showed against the bright blue straight as if drawn by a ruler.
Nearer and nearer they came to “the haven where they would be,” but faster and faster flew the minutes.
“Five-forty-five!” Arthur called, clock in hand.
“Can she do it?” Kenneth asked himself. Only fifteen minutes more, and the black edge of the squall so close.
Then the wind died down.
“I told you so!” said Frank, exultingly.
Kenneth knew that it was but the calm before the storm. “You just wait,” he said; “you haven’t got this cinched yet.”
“Five-fifty!” droned Arthur. “Ten minutes more.”
Kenneth said nothing, but kept a sharp weather eye open for squalls.