But the wall of rain swept down upon them with a whistle and a howl. The streaming sheets of water poured from the dark sky, whirled onward by the raging wind. The boat rocked in the tossing waves.
Frank crouched at the helm, his jaw set, his face stern. The girls huddled in the stern, seeking protection from the sudden downpour.
Joe found a sheet of tarpaulin in a locker, and gave it to the two girls, who draped it over their heads, and it afforded them some shelter. The boat was swaying madly as it ran on through the huge waves that surged on every side.
Frank could scarcely see Bayport ahead through the blinding rain and gloom.
“Where is the other boat?” shouted Joe, above the clamor of the storm.
Frank looked back.
Tony Prito’s boat had disappeared. Frank wondered how the other boys were faring. He had every confidence that Tony would make land in safety, for the Italian lad was skilful at the helm and he had iron nerves, but he was not so sure that Biff Hooper and Chet Morton would weather the gale so easily. Biff had only mastered the rudiments of motorboating and a storm such as this was enough to test the mettle of the most skilful sailors.
He wondered if he should not turn back and go in search of Biff and Chet. When he had last seen them they had been heading directly into the teeth of the gale, out to the open sea. Surely they would not be foolhardy enough to go on!
He glanced back and when he saw Iola’s frightened face he knew that it was impossible to turn back now, for he was responsible for the safety of the girls and there was grave peril in braving the storm just then. He opened the throttle further and felt the Sleuth respond as it leaped ahead into the tossing whitecaps through the shifting screen of rain.
Thunder rolled and crashed. Lightning flickered across the gray void and rent the dark sky in livid streaks. The waves were tossing like white-crested monsters seeking to devour them. Frank peered through the raging gale and he could vaguely discern the city lying ahead. A few lights were twinkling feebly, for the storm brought the darkness of twilight with it.
The gale had sprung up so suddenly that they had been entirely unprepared. Frank devoutly wished that he had taken heed of the warning given by that ominous sky before he started out in the motorboat. He was greatly alarmed for the safety of the girls, because he knew that the storm was one of the worst that had ever swept over Barmet Bay.
“We’ll be lucky if we make it!” he muttered to himself. Then, to reassure the others, he turned and grinned.
“We’ll make it, all right!” he shouted, the wind whisking the words away so that the others scarcely heard him.
A great wave broke over the side. The boat reeled as though it had been struck by a giant hand.
V
No Word from the Chums
Frank Hardy bore down on the helm as the boat heeled over. For a breathless second he thought the craft would be swamped. Water poured over the gunwales. The girls screamed. Joe was thrown off his balance and went sprawling into the stern.
But the Sleuth was staunch. In a moment it recovered, righted itself, and surged on through the storm. Frank breathed a sigh of relief. The engine throbbed steadily and, although the boat was rocking and swaying in the turbulent sea, it was drawing nearer shore and already he could distinguish the line of boathouses through the downpour.
For all its violence, the storm was brief. The wind began to die down, although the rain continued as though the heavens had been opened up. In a few minutes Frank was able to pick out his own boathouse and he headed the Sleuth directly for it. The sturdy craft sped swiftly toward the open doorway, then Frank shut off the engine and the boat came to rest.
“Some trip!” remarked Joe, shaking himself like a dog emerging from the water, so that spray flew from his clothing in every direction.
“My hair is all wet, and I won’t be able to do a thing with it,” mourned Callie Shaw, with feminine concern for her appearance first of all. In spite of the shelter afforded by the tarpaulin, both girls were thoroughly drenched. As for the boys, their clothing clung limply to their bodies. Frank clambered out of the boat and moored it fast, while Joe helped the girls up onto the landing.
“We’re mighty lucky to be back at all,” Iola Morton said. “I was sure the boat would be swamped.”
“It takes a pretty big storm to swamp our boat,” boasted Joe. “Although, to tell the truth, I was pretty nervous for a while.”
“I was so frightened I couldn’t speak,” confessed the girl. “I do hope Chet and Biff turned back. They would never get through that storm alive.”
Frank went to the door.
“No sight of them yet,” he reported. Then he peered through the driving screen of rain again. “Just a minute—I hear a boat coming this way.”
“Perhaps it’s Tony.”
“I hope it’s one or the other. I couldn’t see the Napoli at all after the rain started.”
In a few minutes they discerned a motorboat heading inshore. It was Tony Prito’s craft, the Napoli.
“Good!” exclaimed Joe. “Chet and Biff should be along, too. They won’t start on that trip today.”
“I should hope not!” exclaimed Iola.
But when Tony’s boat drew near the entrance of the boathouse on the way to its own shelter a short distance away, Tony shouted to Frank:
“All safe?”
“Everybody OK! How about you?”
“We’re all right. Had a tough time getting back, though.”
“So did we,” Frank shouted. “Did Biff turn back?”
Tony shook his head. “Not a chance. We signaled to him that he’d better come back but he just shook his head, and
