The tug had rounded the end of the pier. The first of her thousand enemies, sweeping in from the open, had struck her fair. A great sheet of white water, slanting back and up, shot with terrific impact against the house and beyond. For an instant the little craft seemed buried; but almost immediately the gleam of her black hull showed her plunging forward dauntlessly.
“That's nothin'!” said the tug captain who had first spoken. “Wait 'til she gets outside!” The watchers streamed down from the pier for a better view. Carroll and Miss Heinzman followed. They saw the staunch little craft drive into three big seas, each of which appeared to bury her completely, save for her upper works. She managed, however, to keep her headway.
“She can stand that, all right,” said one of the life-saving crew who had been watching her critically. “The trouble will come when she drops down to the vessels.”
In spite of the heavy smashing of head-on seas the SPRITE held her course straight out.
“Where's she going, anyway?” marvelled little Mr. Smith, the stationer. “She's away beyond the wrecks already.”
“Probably Marsh has found the seas heavier than he thought and is afraid to turn her broadside,” guessed his companion.
“Afraid, hell!” snorted a riverman who overheard.
Nevertheless the SPRITE was now so distant that the loom of the great seas on the horizon swallowed her from view, save when she rose on the crest of some mighty billow.
“Well, what is he doing 'way out there then?” challenged Mr. Smith's friend with some asperity.
“Do'no,” replied the riverman, “but whatever it is, it's all right as long as Buck Marsh is at the wheel.”