"Why don't you help us in some way, you fools!" roared Dan, struggling
at the wheel. "You can at least steer, or--"
Before he could proceed there was a report like the bark of a cannon
and a torn and shredded end of hawser came writhing and twisting up out
of the sea, sluing across the face of the pilot-house as though
possessed of all the venom of the living thing it resembled--a python.
There was silence on both the tug and the yacht for a full minute. Dan
watched the distressed craft as she tossed up her bow and glided
sternward from his view behind a jet of black wave, while the
_Fledgling_ seemed to slide from under his feet in the opposite
direction. As the yacht came up again he could see that this mishap
had scattered all semblance of fortitude to the winds. Except for the
young second officer, Mr. Howland, and a sailor, all holding their
places pluckily on the bridge, terror reigned. Sailors, men in
yachting costumes, and women with hair flying flashed along the decks
or in and out of doorways, while forward a group of three young men
lashed to a big anchor held out their hands toward the tug.
Dan turned to his deck-hand, his face hard and determined.
"Pete," he said, "go down and get out the double cables. Welch is
astern and will help you.
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