Within half an hour his prediction began to be verified. The darkish, "muddy" clouds first seen on the northeast horizon were looming up rapidly, the wind now driving steadily from that quarter. Even with all the smallness of her single sail the "Restless" was heeling over considerably to port.

"Lay along here, Hank, and help me to put a double reef in the sail,"

Tom ordered. "I don't want this little bit of canvas blown away from us."

As Tom called, he eased off the sheet, and Hepton lounged away from the wheel.

"Too bad," muttered Hank b.u.t.ts. "We've been making a good four knots since the wind freshened."

"I'm out of a guess if there isn't a wind coming that'd take a sail out of its fastenings in ten seconds," rejoined Halstead, working industriously with the reeves.

A light squall struck them before the boys had finished their task.

"A September northeaster along this coast is no laughing matter, from all I've heard of it," Tom explained as the two boys took the last hitches. "Now, come on, Hank. We'll hoist her."

With long rhythmic pulls at the halyards Tom and b.u.t.ts got the shortened sail up, making all secure.

"You'd better take the wheel, Joe," sang out the young skipper.

"Hepton, stand by to give a hand if the helm moves hard."

"You seem rather excited over a pleasant breeze like this," observed Powell Seaton.

"Wait," said Tom, quietly. "I only hope I am taking too much precaution. I've never handled a boat along the Florida coast before, you know, sir, so it's best to err on the side of caution."

Hank was sent off on the jump, now, to make everything secure, while Skipper Tom took his place on the bridge deck at starboard to watch the weather.

"I guess there'll be time, now, Hank, to rig life lines on the bridge deck," hinted Halstead, coolly. "Never mind about any aft. Whoever goes below can go through the motor room."

Catching a look full of meaning in the young commander's eye, b.u.t.ts hustled about his new task.

"You seem to be making very serious preparations," suggested Powell Seaton, seriously.

"Nothing like being a fool on the wise side," answered Skipper Tom, calmly.

Within ten minutes more the wind had freshened a good deal, and the "Restless" was bending over considerably to port, running well, indeed, considering her very small spread of canvas.

Now, the sky became darker. The weather was like that on sh.o.r.e in autumn when the birds are seen scurrying to cover just before the storm breaks.

"I reckon there's going to be something close to trouble, after all,"

observed Powell Seaton, when it became necessary for him to hold his hat on.

Tom nodded in a taciturn way, merely saying:

"If you're going to stay on deck, Mr. Seaton, you'd better put on a cap, or a sou'wester."

Mr. Seaton started below, through the motor room. While he was still there the gale struck, almost without further warning.

"Watch the wind and ease off a bit, Joe," bawled Skipper Halstead in his chum's ear.

Joe Dawson nodded slightly. The gale was now upon them with such fury that making one's self heard was something like work.

Despite the prompt easing by the helm, the "Restless" bowled over a good deal as the crest of the first in-rolling wave hit her.

Powell Seaton, a cap on his head, appeared at the motor room hatchway.

Tom motioned him to remain where he was.

Clutching at the rail, Tom Halstead kept his face turned weatherward most of the time. He knew, now, that a fifty-five-foot boat like the "Restless," weather-staunch though she was, was going to have about all she could do in the sea that would be running in a few minutes more.

Nor did he make any mistake about that. A darkness that was almost inky settled down over them. Bending through the hatchway, the young sailing master yelled to Powell Seaton to switch on the running lights.

"For we'll need 'em mighty soon, if we don't now," Captain Tom added.

Hank reappeared with rain-coats, and with his own on. Hardly had those on deck so covered themselves when, accompanied by a vivid flash of lightning and a crashing peal of thunder, the rain came down upon them. At first there were a few big drops. Then, the gale increasing, the rain came in drenching sheets. The decks began to run water, almost choking the scuppers.

The heeling of the "Restless" was no longer especially noticeable. She was rolling and pitching in every direction, accompanied by a straining and creaking of timbers.

Powell Seaton, standing below, clutching for support, and not much of a sailor at best, began to feel decidedly scared.

"Are we going to be able to weather this, Captain Halstead?" he yelled up, as the young skipper paused close by the hatchway.

Though the noise of the now furious gale prevented Tom from making out the words very clearly, he knew, by instinct, almost, what had been asked of him.

"Weather the gale, sir?" Tom bawled down, hoa.r.s.ely. "Of course! We've got to!"

There was a new sound that made the young sailing master jump, then quiver. With a great tearing and rending the single canvas gave way before the roaring gale. In a trice the sail was blown to fluttering ribbons!

CHAPTER XX

"C.Q.D! C.Q.D.!--HELP!"

"Lay along with me, Hank!" bawled the young skipper, hoa.r.s.ely, in the steward's ear. "We've got to cut away what's left of the sail."

Neither helmsman could wisely be spared. Though the boat now had no power of her own she was being driven sharply before the gale, and some fine handling of the wheel was needed in order to keep the boat so headed that she might wallow as little as possible in the trough of the sea.

Nor was the work of the young captain and Hank b.u.t.ts anything like play. Making their way out along the top of the cabin deck-house was in itself hazardous. They were forced to clutch at any rigging that came to hand to avoid being washed overboard, for the waves were dashing furiously over the helpless boat.

It was not much of a task to haul in the sheet, making fast. Then, using their sailor's knives, they slashed away.

It was needful for one of them to go aloft.

"I can do it," proposed Hank, summoning all his courage.

"I know you can," Tom bawled in his ear. "But I'm not going to send anyone where I wouldn't go myself. It's mine to go aloft."

Thrusting his knife securely into the sheath at the end of its lanyard, Tom Halstead began to climb. Hank watched him closely. The pair at the wheel had no time to observe. All their attention was needed on their own work.