Smash!
A great wave broke over the bow, drenching the boys to the skin. The full force of the wind caught them as they rounded the point of the island. They were plunging out into a raging waste of waters.
“We’ll never make it!” groaned Chet.
XI
News from the City
Frank Hardy set his jaw with grim determination as he drove the motorboat into the storm. It was too late to turn back.
The storm had swept up with such speed that Frank realized now that he had underestimated it. The wind was terrific and the waves were high. They battered against the staunch little boat, drenching the boys with flying spray.
Frank headed toward the mainland, but then he saw that he could not hope to find shelter from the wind along the shore. The waves were rolling in and dashing against the rocks. The motorboat would have no chance there. It would be flung hither and thither and battered to pieces.
“Nothing for it but to head right into the wind, I guess,” he shouted, above the howl of the storm.
The other boys were crouching in the bottom of the boat, out of the flying spray. The boat seemed to quiver with successive shocks as it bucked the waves.
The rain was driving into their faces. Through the downpour Frank could not even see the little village toward which they were bound. He wished they had remained on Cabin Island.
The Sleuth, although small, was a strong and well-built craft. The engine throbbed faithfully. None of them dared think of the consequences should the engine fail.
The bow of the craft cut through the rolling waves like a knife. Thunder rolled overhead. The sky was black. The boys could scarcely see the shore. Driving against the wind and the tide, the boat could make little speed, and headway seemed slight.
Nevertheless The Sleuth was edging slowly down the bay, coming ever closer to the little village. Frank peered through the raging storm, hoping to catch sight of the little huddle of houses on the shore.
Lightning flared in the dark sky. Frank held the boat steadily into the wind.
They were all drenched to the skin. Although no one said a word, Frank could see that the others were frightened. As a matter of fact, he was none too confident of the outcome himself.
“It all depends on the engine,” he muttered. “If that fails, we’re done for.”
But the engine had been thoroughly overhauled just the previous week. He was grateful for the foresight that had enabled him and Joe to take this precaution.
Joe crept to the side of his brother.
“Do you think we’ll get there, Frank?” he shouted.
Frank nodded. “It’s dirty weather, but we ought to make it all right.”
Just then he caught sight of the little break in the shoreline that indicated the cove where the village was located. They were still far out, and to reach the village the boat must run diagonal to the waves. This was the hardest test.
The buffeting The Sleuth had previously received was as nothing to what she now suffered. Time and again the boys held their breaths, certain that the boat was about to capsize. Great waves would crash against it, the boat would cant far over on her side, her bow would be buried in the water. Then, like a live thing, The Sleuth would shake herself free, rise above the waves, and go plunging on.
The boys clung to every available hold, fearful of being washed overboard.
Suddenly Joe gave a shout of warning:
“Watch out!”
A great roller was bearing down on them. They ducked, waited—
Crash!
A huge sea of green water engulfed them. For a moment the boat was completely buried beneath the wave. It slipped far over. Frank felt his feet washed from beneath him. He clung to the wheel with all the strength at his command, held his breath through what seemed an eternity of waiting.
Then the motorboat labored free of the wave, slowly righted itself. The water receded. The craft was weighted down by the water that still remained in it, but all the boys were safe. Chet was suffering from a cut across the forehead, where he had been flung against one of the seats; Biff was clutching his wrist, which had been wrenched in his desperate effort to retain his grip on an iron ring; Joe was gasping for breath after his immersion in the water; Frank felt a dull pain in his side, where he had been dashed against the wheel.
More dead than alive, the boys held on. But the village was now in plain view. They had gone through the worst of the storm, and the waves were now hurling the boat in toward the cove.
Frank steered toward a little dock, where the angry waters were dashing themselves angrily against the timbers. He saw a man clad in oilskins running out on the dock, gesturing to them and pointing toward the shore. There was a little boathouse in the cove, and then the man ran from the dock over toward the boathouse, still gesturing.
There was shelter for them. The motorboat would have been dashed to pieces had they tied up to the dock. Frank saw the door of the boathouse open and he drove directly toward it. A great wave caught the craft and it shot forward. A turn of the wheel and he was headed into the narrow opening. He switched off the engine, and then The Sleuth slid gently into the slip.
Tired, exhausted, drenched, the boys clambered out of the boat. The man in oilskins was waiting for them. He seized a rope Frank flung to him and snubbed it around a post.
“Well, now, that was a narrow squeak, if ever I saw one!” he declared in a familiar, nasal voice. “Wust storm we’ve had on this bay for ten years, and you’d be caught in it. You’re
