Had we gone about at that time, we should have run the risk of being driven on the Stags, both wind and tide setting in that direction. The wind became very light, and we made but slow progress.
Our hopes of reaching Penzance gradually decreased as the day wore on, and yet, while the flood was making, it would have been folly to stand towards the shore. At length papa calculated that the tide had turned. We were on the point of putting the vessel’s head to the northward when a thick mist, driving up from the chops of the Channel, completely enveloped us, while the wind rapidly increased, as of course did the sea.
Dick, who had been walking about with his hands in his pockets, now suddenly found himself jerked here and there, and was compelled to pull them out to catch hold of anything which came in his way; sometimes a stanchion, sometimes the side of the vessel, now and then Truck, or me, or the man at the helm.
“Take care, my lad, you don’t go overboard,” sang out papa. “You’d better turn in and keep out of harm’s way.”
Dick, however, was too proud to do this. “No, thank you; I’d rather stay on deck,” he answered. “I’ll pull and haul, and help the sailors in any way you like.”
“I won’t ask you to do that; only sit down on the skylight, and should a sea strike us hold on with your eyelids.”
Dick did as he was advised; at first he sat up, and looked very bold; but gradually he became paler and paler, and yellower and yellower, while his lip curled, and a groan every now and then escaped his breast.
“Hulloa! what’s become of the Dolphin?” I exclaimed, looking round, and not seeing her anywhere.
“She was away to leeward of us when I went down to tea,” observed Truck, who had just then returned on deck. “Where did you last see her?” he asked of the man at the helm.
“Maybe a couple of hundred fathoms astern, sir; but I don’t think more,” was the answer.