Arthur cut the shoe from Ransom’s swelling ankle, and then bound it tightly with a cloth saturated with witch hazel.
“Chasing anchors on stormy nights seems to be fatal for me,” Kenneth remarked, as he lay on his bunk regarding his bandaged foot. “I’ll give you fellows a chance next time—I don’t want to be piggish about it.”
Presently the cabin light was turned down and all hands got into their berths. Not a tongue moved, but brains were active; not an eyelid felt heavy, but the boys resolutely kept them closed. The storm raged on; gust succeeded gust, the rain beat down on the thin cabin roof with increasing fierceness. It was a trying night, and each of the four boys was glad enough to see the gray light come stealing in through the frosted port lights. They had all thought that they would never see daylight again, though each had kept his fears to himself.
The wind still roared and the rain poured down, but the yacht tossed and rolled less violently; her movements were slower and sluggish, quite unlike those of the usually sprightly, light “Gazelle.”
“Sea must have gone down,” commented Clyde, in a casual way, as he noted that the others were awake. “Queer, wind’s blowing great guns, too.”
Kenneth sat up suddenly and bumped his head on the deck beam above. This made him wince, and he drew his game foot suddenly against the boat’s side. Kenneth made so wry a face that his friends could not help laughing outright—an honest laugh, in spite of the sympathy they felt.
“Both ends at once.” The captain tried to rub his head and his ankle at the same moment, and found it a good deal of a stretch.
“There is a new bar to be charted here.” His finger went gingerly round the bump on his forehead.
“Frank, go on deck, will you, and see if things are moderating. I’d like to get into some cove or another.”
Chauvet made his way to the ladder and shoved the doors with all his might; but it was only after repeated blows with a heavy rope fender that they opened.