“But I will,” he answered grimly. “Arthur, keep your eye on that clock.”
CHAPTER XIX
A STORMY NIGHT ON A SINKING PILE-DRIVER
Plunging, then darting like a frightened deer, the “Gazelle” raced for her goal; the long pier of Rondeau Harbor was just off her starboard bow.
Could she make it by six o’clock?
Frank and Arthur thought no, Kenneth would not admit, even to himself, that he was beaten.
Laying way over before the blast, she rushed along. The water churned up by her bows rushed white above her lee rail, the weather rigging, taut with the strain put upon it, vibrated like the bass strings of a harp, the lee rigging sagging in proportion.
Kenneth leaned forward, his face eager, his hand grasping the tiller so hard that the knuckles showed white through his tanned skin. Frank and Arthur lay far out to windward—as far out as they could get.
“Six o’clock!” cried Arthur, looking up from the clock he held in his hand. “And, by Jove, you’ve won!”
Rounding the lighthouse pier, the yacht slipped in behind the crib and rested in smooth water.