Over went the iron.
"Now for some weak-fish. It's about three fathoms, and the tide's near the turn."
Alas for human calculations! The grapnel caught on the bottom, surely and firmly; but the moment there came any strain on the seemingly stout hawser that held it, the latter parted like a thread, and the "Swallow" was adrift!
"Somebody's done gone cut dat rope!" shouted Dick, as he caught up the treacherous bit of hemp.
There was an anxious look on Dab's face for a moment, as he shouted: "Sharp now, boys, or we'll be rolling in the surf in three minutes! Haul away, Dick! Haul with him, Ford! Up with her! There, that'll give us headway."
Ford Foster looked out to seaward, even as he hauled his best on the sail halliards. All along the line of the coast, at distances varying from a hundred yards or so to nearly a mile, there was an irregular line of foaming breakers. An awful thing for a boat like the "Swallow" to run into.
Perhaps; but ten times worse for a larger craft, for the latter would be shattered on the shoals where the bit of a yacht would find plenty of water under her, if she did not at the same time find too much over her.
"Can't we go back through the inlet in the bar?" asked Ford.
"Not with this wind in our teeth, and it's getting worse every minute. No more will it do to try and keep inside the surf."
"What can we do, then?"