“We’ve got to help Mr. Preston,” shouted Helen, and she refused to move.
“All right, then I stay too,” yelled Tom, who kept anxious eyes on the approaching tornado.
The Flyer was less than a hundred yards from shore but was settling deeper and deeper into the water.
“It’s almost shallow enough for him to wade ashore,” cried Helen.
“Wind would sweep him off his feet,” replied Tom.
The speedboat was making slow progress, barely staggering along in its battle against the wind and waves.
“He’s going to make it!” shouted Helen.
“I hope so,” said Tom, but his words were lost in the wind.
Fifty yards more and the Flyer would nose into the sandy beach which marked the Rolfe end of the lake.
“Come on, Flyer, come on!” cried Helen.