“We’ll have to quarter it,” spoke Mr. Ringold, when he had taken an observation, by the aid of a lightning flash.
Meanwhile Joe and Mr. Piper had started the motor, and, as the welcome throb and hum were heard, Blake and the manager went to the wheel.
“Better light up,” the moving picture man said. “No telling what we may run into, or what might run into us. There are probably boats afloat, bad as the storm is.”
Save for a single light in the cabin, and a riding light outside, the Clytie was in darkness when the cable parted. But now the incandescents were switched on. They were operated by a large storage battery, charged by a dynamo, run by the motor flywheel.
With a powerful searchlight at her bow, her stern light, and the red and green side lamps, as well as the cabin lights, aglow, the craft now presented a more cheerful aspect, and she was certainly safer. The lights, too, helped to take away the really terrifying effect of the vivid lightning.
The place at the wheel was partitioned off, and that little pilot house, as it were, was left in darkness, to enable Blake and Mr. Ringold to see to steer.
They could do little, however, save to try and cross the current in a diagonal direction, to make their way to some sheltered cove.
“This certainly is the limit!” murmured Blake, as he stood at the manager’s side. “I didn’t think there was any more rain left in the clouds.”
“There seems to be plenty coming down,” observed the theatrical man, grimly. They listened to it pelting on the cabin roof. It was a constant roar, and added to it was the thunder of the sky artillery, following each flash, and the never-ceasing hiss and hum of the rushing river.
“We’ll have to look out for debris as best we can,” spoke Mr. Ringold. “There are some big logs afloat, and if one hits us end on——”