He had a poor opinion of the quality of resistance in a well-made little yacht.
I managed to get near him, when a wave that washed across the deck threatened to carry me over the side, only that Robbins’ strong hand grasped my arm and gave me assistance until I, too, had the use of his rope.
Conversation was difficult in the midst of such confusion and deafening clamor; we were compelled to shout in order to be heard.
I assured Robbins I had passed through as bad blows as this without material damage, and that unless some wretched accident happened, there was no reason why we should not come out safely.
Cummings hove in sight.
He looked dreadfully anxious, for this was the first time he had been in full charge of the boat in a storm; our captain had always managed everything before.
Still, Cummings knew his business, and was hardly the man to get rattled.
I told him he must do whatever he considered safest, regardless of any plans we might have made on the previous night, even if it was to run once more for the snug harbor of Bolivar, where we could laugh at the hurricane; and that if we needed any help to call upon Robbins, who was ready and willing to stand by.
Perhaps my faith in him gave Cummings a little more confidence; he affirmed what I already suspected, that our course had been changed some time before to meet the fury of the storm, and that we were working our way to the north as near as he could hit it.
It was best, he said, to keep clear of the coast, which was always treacherous; we would be wiser to take our chances out in the open sea; and Robbins earnestly coincided with this sailor-like declaration.