By this time Geoff had snugged down for'ard and come aft.
"What's up with her?" he inquired.
Bernard shook his head.
"Hanged if I know," he replied. "I have never handled such a brute. Headsheets to wind'ard, old son. Sooner we get way on her the better."
By this time Arran Dhu had drifted rather than sailed clear of the anchorage. Sulkily she paid off, gathered way, and pointed her bows towards the open sea.
Before Black Rock was abeam, Bernard had "got the hang of things". In other words, he discovered that the old-fashioned craft could not be "pinched"—that is to say, sailed close to the wind. She would not point so high as a short-keeled yacht, or even the centre-board boats to which the chums were accustomed. But, given liberal weather-helm, Arran Dhu would be reasonably tractable.
"What's the course, Captain?" asked Geoff, when St. Antony bore a mile to the nor'ard.
"Due east," replied Bernard. "You take the helm, I'll go below and get the kettle on the stove. Yes, she's doing very well now."
Arran Dhu was certainly moving. There was a steady sou'westerly breeze and favourable flood-tide. With eased sheets the cutter was doing a good five knots, while the dinghy, straining at her two-inch Manila painter, was frothing noisily through the grey-blue water.
Already it was close on sunset. In the cabin it was too gloomy to see much, so Bernard lighted the two gimballed lamps before attending to the stove.
What a transformation those lamps made! The mellow light harmonized with the cushions and curtains. There was a pleasing and characteristically yachty smell of varnished teak, and a subtle odour of tarred rope. From without came the sound of plashing water as the old boat drove sedately through the waves. Through the open skylight wafted the sound of the wind as it hummed in the tautened weather rigging. The while there was a pleasing, rhythmic motion that made the swing table and the gimballed lamps sway in unison as the Arran Dhu kicked her heels to the quartering seas.
"This is absolutely IT!" thought Bernard enthusiastically.
Presently: "Grub's ready!" he sang out. "Are you coming down?"
"No," replied Geoff. "You carry on. I'm all right. When you've finished I'll have my grub."
Bernard ate his meal in silence, ecstatically happy.
"Bring the side-lights when you come up," called out the helmsman.
Reflecting that these should have been lighted and placed in position before, as it was now well past sunset, Bernard brought the lamps from the lamp-room and went on deck.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed, "what's the wind doing?"
"Falling light," replied his chum, relinquishing the tiller. "No matter; we're afloat. Who cares?"
Left to himself Bernard nursed the almost unresisting tiller. The breeze was dropping steadily. The Arran Dhu was hardly making way through the water. Astern the dinghy wallowed sluggishly, the bight of her painter dipping again and again into the oily sea, and throwing a cascade of phosphorescent spray every time the rope took up the towing strain.
Bernard glanced at the compass-card in the electrically lighted binnacle-hood. The yacht's bows were still pointing east. So far the dying breeze had remained true.
Shorewards the lights of the various fishing-hamlets had vanished into a sort of watery haze. Although overhead the stars shone brightly a kind of low-lying mist seemed to be closing down upon the yacht.
At length the wind petered out. Arran Dhu rolled sluggishly, her canvas slatting from side to side, the heavy boom bringing up with a jerk as the mainsheet took up the strain. Alternately the flapping foresail was tinged with red and green as the fabric swung into the arc of the sidelights. Through the frosted glass of the skylight the lamps in the saloon gleamed cosily. A clatter of metal announced that Geoff had finished his meal, and was engaged in the prosaic task of washing-up.
Then it was that Bernard realized the impotency of a sailing-craft when deserted by the breeze. There was a sense of utter helplessness in being becalmed in the open seas on a dark night, and without power to move the yacht. A motor, which both chums had scornfully derided, would now have been welcome. True, there were sweeps, but what purpose was there in tugging at the heavy ash oars which at their best would urge the heavy craft along at only a little over a mile an hour?
Bernard began to be conscious of a decided drop in temperature. There was a chilliness in the air that seemed different from the normal change following sunset. It was a damp cold that, in spite of the lad's thick sweater, seemed to strike to the very marrow of his bones.
"Pass up my oileys, Geoff!" he sung out.
"Right-o!" replied his chum. "What do you want them for? Is it raining?"
"No; it's beastly cold," was the laconic response. "Better bring yours, too, while you're about it."
Geoff appeared carrying both semi-rigid, self-adhesive lumps of yellow canvas that claimed to be non-sticking oilskin coats.
"It is dark, isn't it?" remarked Geoff. "How's her head, cap'n?"
He peered at the compass card. The lubber's line was against NW by W.
"Bit off your course, aren't you?" he remarked.
"Try and get her round, then," said his chum. "We're just drifting, nothing more."
To emphasize his remark, the dinghy ranged up alongside the yacht's port quarter. At the risk of having his fingers jammed, Bernard grasped the dinghy's gunwale and pushed her clear of the sluggishly rolling Arran Dhu. The while the boom was charging from side to side, threatening to deal a stunning blow to either or both lads.
This sort of thing continued until nearly midnight. The sky was now completely overcast. Big drops of rain pattered on the deck or splashed as they struck the heaving, crestless waves. The rain increased in density, until, in spite of the darkness, the sea all around the wind-starved yacht was ghostly white with the rebounding drops and the noise of the creaking gear was drowned by the sound of the vertically falling downpour.
Then, its volume increasing until it outvoiced the sound of falling rain, came a long-drawn moan.
Each lad glanced at the other. Bernard sprang to his feet.
"Let go your headsheets," he shouted. "We're in for it! It's a squall!"
CHAPTER V. On her Beam Ends
Even as Geoff cast loose jib and staysail sheets from their cleats, and Bernard paid out the saturated and swollen mainsheet the violent squall swept down upon the Arran Dhu.
It took her fairly abeam and in spite of her great stability flung her down until her lee coamings were awash. The canvas flapped and cracked like a whip; the slacked-off sheets flogged wildly. In the darkness it was out of the question to form any definite idea of what was going on. The lads were enveloped in salt-laden spray as they groped for the tiller and mainsheet.
Fortunately the initial blast was of short duration. The yacht, relieved of the terrific pressure, began to forge ahead, gathering way as Geoff hauled in the stubborn mainsheet.
"Get those headsails to wind'ard as sharp as you can," shouted his chum. "We'll heave to and knock down a couple of reefs."
Considering their lack of practical experience the youthful crew were to be congratulated. How exactly they succeeded in taking in those two reefs they hardly knew. It was not until the last of the reef-points was secured, and the breathless lads were once more in the cockpit, that they discovered they were without their oileys and wet through to the skin. In the excitement of finding their movements impeded they had automatically discarded the cumbersome coats and had bundled them under one of the seats of the cockpit. Ten minutes ago they were feeling chilled to the bone; now they were glowing as the result of their exertions.