“We’re—we’re—” Henry began.
“No we’re not! We’re off!” shrilled Tom as the wave caught up to them and the Porto Bello, with a staggering effort, let herself be swung up into the cradling arms of the mighty water.
She staggered on; she lost the supporting force of the water and sunk down on one side; once again—and ever again for what seemed an eternity, she was lifted, borne forward, slumped down to roar and grind along the sand, or to lie, like a stricken thing, on her bulging side, the sole thing that kept her from turning over.
Bill did noble work, with Cliff again at his side, at the wheel, while Nicky and Tom stood by at the bows, one with the lead held ready if they ever got through this moiling mud and spume.
Came a wave, the greatest yet, as the Porto Bello was dumped on the sand. Crash! while they all grabbed and clung to stanchions with all their strength a huge swirl of muddied water swept over them. They emerged, gasping and coughing—came another grinding, forward movement—and then, like a tired bird, safe at last in her nest, the cruiser slid over the last sand of the bar and into quiet water where, as her engine slowed, she rocked in a soft, gentle swell.
“Phew!” coughed Bill, poking out a porthole glass, and sticking his head out through the opening. “That was——”
“Stand by!” shouted Henry, wildly. “We’re in a current running back out to sea like a torrent—get her around—get her around—hard a-starboar—no, hard a——”
Simultaneously he broke off his calls and stared ahead as if chained to the spot, speechless. Tom and Nicky, staring too, stiffened.
Out from the sand protruded needles of rock, with swirling water and roiling sand partly concealing the black doom!
“Back water!” yelled Cliff. “Swing her off!”