With a cry of fear the boy
dropped his hoe, stared for an instant at the overturned craft, and then
sped across the potato field sloping to the shore. He did not wait to go
by the path, which led straight up to a little cabin in the valley, but,
making a short cut to the left, leaped into a tangled thicket beyond. He
crashed his way through the branches and underbrush, not heeding the
numerous scratches upon face and hands.
He reached the _Scud_, tore, rather than untied the painter from an
old oak root, and sent the boat reeling backwards from its moorings. The
sail flapped wildly in the breeze, which was now growing stronger, and the
craft began to drift. Catching up the centre-board, lying near, the boy
drove it down into its narrow groove with a resounding thud. Seizing the
sheet-line with one hand, and squatting well astern he grasped the tiller
with the other. Nobly the boat obeyed her little determined commander. The
sail filled, she listed to the left and darted forward, bearing bravely up
the wind. Straight ahead the boy could see the distressed boat sinking
lower and lower in the water, with a man and a woman clinging desperately
to the upturned side.
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