ight. Dampier called to him.

"You'll have to run her off," he said. "Boys, slack out your sheets."

There was a clatter of blocks, and when Wyllard pulled his helm up it
taxed all his strength. The _Selache_ swung around, and he gasped with
the effort to control her as she drove away furiously into the
thickening snow. She was carrying far too much canvas, but they could
not heave her to and take it off her now. The boat must be picked up
first, and the veins rose swollen to Wyllard's forehead as he struggled
with the wheel. There is always a certain possibility of bringing a
fore-and-aft rigged vessel's main-boom over when she is running hard,
and this is apt to result in disaster to her spars. So fast was the
_Selache_ traveling that the sea piled up in big white waves beneath her
quarter, and, cold as the day was, the sweat of tense effort dripped
from Wyllard as he foresaw what he had to do. First of all, he must hold
the schooner straight before the wind without letting her fall off to
leeward, which would bring the booms crashing over; then he must run
past the boat, which he could no longer see, and round up the schooner
with fore-staysail aback to leeward of her, to wait until she drove down
on them.

This would not have been difficult in a moderate breeze, but the wind
was blowing furiously and the schooner was greatly pressed with sail. He
thought of calling the others to lower the mainsail peak, but with the
weight of wind there was in the canvas he was not sure that they could
haul down the gaff. Besides, they were busy securing the boat, which
must be made fast again before they hove the other in, and it was almost
dark now. In view of what had happened in the same waters one night,
four years before, the desire to pick up the boat while there was a
little light left became an obsession.

The swell was rapidly whitening and getting steeper. The _Selache_ hove
herself out of it forward as she swung up with streaming bows. It seemed
to Wyllard that he must overrun the boat before he noticed her, but at
last he saw Dampier swing himself on to the rail. The skipper stood
there clutching at a shroud, and presently swinging an arm, turned
toward Wyllard.

"Eight ahead!" he shouted. "Let her come up a few points before you run
over them."

Wyllard put his helm down a spoke or two, which was easy, and then as
the bows swung high again there was a harsh cry from the man who stood
above Dampier in the shrouds