"It's not only that we are one less in number, which counts, but also the fact that the schooner keeps getting harder and harder to pull," Charley observed. "I'll bet she is six inches deeper in the water than when we fastened on. Her captain is doing his best to keep her up—just listen to him," he grinned.
The lanky, solemn, old negro was dancing around the schooner's deck heaping abuse, threats, prayers, and supplications on the kinky-headed toilers at the pumps. He also had noted the gathering squall and was driving his exhausted crew to the limit of their endurance.
The minutes dragged slowly away while the launches with their heavy burden labored gallantly on. They were slowly nearing the island, Anchote Key, which lay in front of the port of Tarpon Springs. But, although they were close to their destination, the squall was close to them. The tiny black cloud had spread rapidly until it blanketed the entire northern horizon with an inky mass.
"Do you think we will make it, Captain?" Charley inquired, anxiously, as they watched the gathering storm.
"I doubt if we will reach Tarpon before it hits us," answered the old sailor, "but I guess we will be able to get in behind Anchote Key and escape the worst of the seas."
As the squall neared them the wind dropped away and the sea took on an oily smoothness. The air hung heavy, still and oppressive. The sun had long since disappeared behind the wall of black but so motionless was the air that they breathed with difficulty and the perspiration stood out on their hands and faces.
"There she comes," cried Captain Westfield, suddenly.
Away to the north under the low-hanging cloud appeared a wall of foaming white.
Charley steered with one eye on the moving comb of water and the other on the rock-shored island close aboard.
He gave a sigh of relief as the launches and schooner slipped slowly in behind the protecting island just as the squall broke in a roar of wind and driving sheets of rain.