Arran Dhu was lying with her canvas almost flat on the water. In fact her boom-end and the clew of her staysail were submerged. Her mast, thirty-eight feet from heel to truck, was inclined to such an extent that the top was only about seven feet from the surface.
"Are we aground?" asked Geoff.
"Aground—in mid channel," replied his chum. "I don't think. Must have hit some floating object, I fancy."
"Then why doesn't she right herself?"
"Goodness knows," answered Bernard. "Let's get canvas off her and see if that makes any difference."
It was a practical suggestion but difficult to put into execution. It was no easy task to go for'ard, maintaining a precarious foothold on the side of the skylight, and thence to the fife-rail. Working desperately they succeeded in casting off the moisture-swollen jib and staysail halliards and coaxing the headsails into a rough and ready furl. Harder still was it to slack off peak and throat halliards and to claw the heavy canvas. The gaff-jaws jammed; the mast-hoops refused to slide along the almost horizontal mast.
Hauling, teasing, and kneading the heavy flaxen canvas the chums succeeded after a tough struggle in gathering it in and lashing it loosely to the boom. Relieved of this amount of leverage the yacht recovered a little from the excessive list—not much, but sufficiently to bring the mast up till it made an angle of thirty degrees with the surface of the sea. At that inclination there was less immediate danger of the water pouring over the lee side of the cockpit.
"It's my belief she's dropped her keel!" declared Geoff.
Which was a perfectly accurate surmise. Arran Dhu's ballast consisted principally of three tons of iron on her keel, the rest being in the form of lead pigs stowed under her bottom-boards. In her recent refit care had been bestowed upon the renewal of her standing and running gear; but one important consideration had been entirely overlooked—the condition of her keel-bolts. Twelve years had elapsed since these had last been renewed and throughout that period unseen corrosive action had been taking place. The action is most rapid at a point where the metal keel and the deadwood touch. In fact it is not unusual on knocking out a keel bolt to find that although the corrosion elsewhere is but slight the bolt at this point may be eaten away to a mere fraction of an inch.
And this is what had happened to Arran Dhu's keel bolts. Providentially they had withstood the stress and strain during the storm, but, in the lull that followed, the heavy mass of metal keel had just dropped off and was now resting fathoms deep on the bed of the English Channel. Had the accident occurred during the height of the storm the fate of the yacht and her youthful crew would have been sealed. As it was she had merely taken a heavy list—almost on her beam ends—and had shown no decided tendency to right herself.
Both lads realized the hazardous nature of their position. It was one thing to be afloat in a stiff, weatherly craft; another to be drifting helplessly out of sight of land, clinging precariously to a disabled vessel that might roll completely over and plunge to the bottom at any moment.
So far only the sudden lull in the wind had saved the Arran Dhu from turning turtle. No other craft was in sight; the weather outlook pointed to a renewed and possibly heavier blow; the dinghy had been lost; so altogether things looked decidedly black for the crew.
Yet they came of a stock that is not dismayed when in a tight fix. They were not the sort of lads to sit down and wait for trouble, nor were they ready to throw up the sponge.
"Grub first," decided Bernard. "Now's our chance and goodness only knows when we may get another. I'll go below and fetch up some sort of a meal."
So saying he again scrambled into the saloon, fervently hoping that Arran Dhu would not capsize while he was below. The lee side of the cabin floor was more than ankle deep in water. Either the yacht was leaking through the bolt-holes or else she had shipped a quantity of water over the cockpit coaming and through the open scuttles.
Treading warily—it would have been an easy matter to find a foothold on the pictures secured to one side of the saloon—Bernard proceeded to close the scuttles. Through those on the port side he could see nothing but a circular expanse of angry-looking sky; those to starboard embraced a limited view of leaden-coloured water but a few inches from the brass-bound rim of the scuttles.
Groping in the alley-way between the pantry and the galley, Bernard retrieved a couple of tins of meat and a watertight box of biscuits. Bread and other "soft tack" was floating about in a sodden condition. The tap of the fresh-water tank, too, was a couple of inches under the bilge-water, so it was out of the question to make use of the contents of the tank for drinking purposes.
"Jolly good thing we bought those bottles of lime-juice and soda," soliloquized the lad optimistically. "Well, that's enough in the catering department for the present."
Lying upon the shelving deck with their feet against the skylight, the chums had a hurried meal. It could not be described as a pleasant repast. They knew that time was precious and hurried through the "cold tack" accordingly. Nevertheless they felt considerably refreshed and fortified and in this condition life assumed a fairly roseate hue.
"If we can cut away her mast she'll right herself," declared Geoff, mentally measuring the girth of the heavy Oregon pine spar. "We can use it as a sea-anchor and ride to it until a vessel shows up."
"Hard lines on Mr. Gordon's property," remarked his chum.
"If we don't it looks as if he'll lose the yacht," pursued Geoff. "It's my turn to go below. I wonder if there's an axe or a saw on board."
Searching diligently in the lockers in the fo'c'sle, Geoff failed to discover any cutting-tools. There were rusty spanners, a marlin-spike without a point, a serving-mallet, a few files and a hack-saw with a badly-worn blade. With these he returned on deck.
"Dud collection this," he remarked. "Let's see what the hack-saw will do. You might start on the weather rigging-screws with the spanner, old son."
While Bernard set to work to cast off the stout wire shrouds his chum attacked the mast with the hack-saw, starting at a point about a foot above the spider-band. It was hard work, the rusty blade making very slight impression upon the tough wood.
"How are you getting on?" inquired Bernard, as one shroud, cast off by unthreading the rigging screw, swung noisily across the deck, its end disappearing under the surface of the water.
"Rottenly," replied Geoff.
"Then put more beef into it," prompted his chum.
Geoff did so, with the inevitable result. The rusty hack-saw blade parted with a loud twang. It was the only saw blade they possessed.
"Rough luck," commented Bernard. "Never mind; we've our knives. I'll knock off my job and bear a hand. The sooner we cut away the mast the better. Wind's piping up already."
It was. Gusts were ruffling the heavy surface of the sea, forerunners of worse to come. The yacht's list increased until it seemed as if she would be right down to it. One blast in particular knocked her well on her beam-ends. A cascade of water poured into the cockpit.
For the moment both lads thought that it was all up with the Arran Dhu. They grasped the lifebuoys that they had placed ready to hand and waited.
But with the passing of the squall, the yacht recovered herself. In fact the angle of inclination was rather less than before.
"The water we shipped is acting as ballast," declared Bernard. "Once we get the tophamper clear. . . . Stick it, old son."
Both lads tackled their task with renewed zest. They knew that they were working against time. While Geoff held the edge of the blade of his sheath knife against the mast his chum dealt the steel a hefty blow with the serving-mallet, continuing the process until there was quite a respectable gash in the tough pine. Nevertheless it was a tedious business, and at the end of about an hour's feverish labour Arran Dhu's massive "stick" still defied their efforts.