It was Friday, so the two boys decided to give the "yacht" a short trial-trip down to the Highlands and back. In that way they would become familiar with the boat, and on Monday morning would be ready to start on a week's cruise. It chanced that a flood-tide was just beginning when the lads shoved the Slug well out into the river, while the wind was blowing a brisk gale straight down-stream, the very direction in which the boys wished to go. Clifford was enough of a sailor to step the little mast and properly set the leg-of-mutton sail for a breeze directly astern. With a strong wind behind her, and only a weak tide opposing, it was not surprising that the Slug made a progress quite satisfactory to the two amateur yachtsmen. As the tide increased in force, however, the boat went slower and slower, and it was six o'clock when the Highlands "hove in sight," as Jack said—having learned that and other nautical terms from his story-books. On finding how late it was, Clifford remarked:
"We'd better be making for home."
The boys managed to put the Slug about, and very soon Jack ascertained that there were times when it was an advantage to have a boat able to sail close to the wind; for, as the breeze still blew down-stream, Clifford found it simply impossible to beat up the river in the Slug. The truth was, the only "proper conditions" under which Johnny Peltsman's boat would sail at all were those of going straight before the wind!
"'HOW CAN YOU SLEEP?' ASKED CLIFFORD."
Clifford told Jack that they must "row the old tub back to Mud Flat," and both boys pluckily bent to the work. It was hard work, too. The oars were long and heavy, the boat was as unwieldy as a raft of logs, and at length Jack exclaimed:
"It seems to me, Cliff, that the scenery along this river is very monotonous. We passed just such banks and houses as those over there, ten minutes ago."
Clifford threw a hurried glance shoreward, looked down at the water, and immediately pulled his oar into the boat, saying:
"The fates are against us, Jack. In spite of our pulling and tugging, we are actually drifting down-stream. The tide has turned; it's dead against us, and so is the wind. It would take a Cunarder to tow this miserable scow back to Mud Flat, now."
"What's to be done?" asked Jack, suddenly realizing that they might be swept out into the bay, where the whitecaps gave evidence that a very high sea would be encountered.