"Will you shove the centerboard down by the iron handle, and then take hold of the tiller, Miss Haldane?" I said.
The girl, stooping, thrust at the handle projecting from the trunk containing the drawn-up center keel. The iron plate should have dropped at a touch, but did not, and I sprang to her side when she said: "Something must be holding it fast."
She was right. Caryl had either bent the plate by striking a rock or a piece of driftwood had jammed into the opening, for, do what I would, the iron refused to fall more than a third of its proper distance, and it was with a slight shock of dismay I relinquished the struggle. A sailing craft of any description will only work to windward in zigzags diagonally to the breeze, and then only provided there is enough of her under water to provide lateral resistance, which the deep center keel should have supplied. As it was, I must attempt to remedy the deficiency by press of canvas at the risk of a capsize.
Fortunately my companion was quick-witted and cool, and, standing at the helm, followed my instructions promptly, while I dragged at the halliards, and the loose folds of sailcloth rose thrashing overhead. I was breathless when the sail was set, but sprang aft to the helm, lifted the girl to the weather deck, and perched myself as high on that side as I could, with the mainsheet round my left wrist and my right hand on the tiller, wondering if the mast would bear the strain. The boat swayed down until her leeward deck was buried in a rush of foam and her bending mast slanted half way to the horizontal. Little clouds of spray shot up from her weather bow as, gathering way, she swept ahead, and then they gave place to sheets of water, which lashed our faces, and, sluicing deep along the decks, poured over the coaming ledge into the open well. Still, we were in comparatively smooth water where one could risk a little, and while the straining mainsheet, which I dare not make fast, sawed into my wrist, I glanced at my companion. Her hat was sodden--already her hair clung in soaked clusters to her forehead, and her wet face showed white against the dark water which raced past us. Yet it was still confident, and her voice was level as she said: "Let me help you. That rope is cutting your wrist."