A very black pillar, like thick smoke, writhed between sea and sky; the surface of the lake rose in a cone, rose to meet it, and the sky narrowed down like a funnel. All the time it was twisting furiously, and the water about it was much agitated. It moved steadily across the lake in a direction that seemed to lead to the “Gazelle.”
“Great king!” exclaimed the skipper. “That’s a waterspout, sure. We are done for if it strikes us, just as sure as shooting!”
The comrades watched the watery column anxiously. They were greatly relieved, at length, to see it swerve to one side, sweep across the lake and apparently go to pieces on the further shore.
“Well, we can say, if any one asks us if we saw a waterspout, ‘Yes, we did. Would any one else like to ask any questions?’” The mate put on an air that imitated the cheap lyceum lecturer to the life.
Just before making Port Huron, where the St. Clair River enters Lake Huron, the boys encountered the ugly rapids that make the navigation of this strait so difficult. It was a mile long, and a very trying run for a sailing vessel, even under the most favorable circumstances. A large steamer had sunk in the channel a few weeks before, and nearly blocked it. The wind, strong, as usual, was blowing dead ahead. It was a beat to windward with scarcely room to come about; one tack was hardly taken before another one had to be made. By the time that the end of the obstructing vessel was reached, “the crew’s” hands, so he declared, were worn through to the bone, from the frequent and rapid handling of the jib sheet.
“Great Scott!” cried the mate from his lookout forward. “We are running down a steamer!”
Sure enough, a great grain boat was coming in the opposite direction, and would soon be upon them.
“It’s all right,” called out Ransom, reassuringly; “we’re clear of the wreck now.”
The words had hardly been spoken before the wind died out, as if by magic, and the sails flapped about limp and helpless. The great boat had blanketed the “Gazelle” as completely as if a wall had been built in front of her. The current was setting back toward the abandoned steel steamship, and the yacht drifted with alarming speed toward the obstruction.
“I’ll gybe her,” Kenneth said to himself, “and retrace our steps till we get to the open. Then we’ll wait till there are no other boats moving.” Aloud, he shouted: “Look out, boys! I am going to gybe.”