it.

"It's a terrible night, isn't it?" the doctor enquired.

"Oh, no. Jist a gentle breeze."

"But look at your oil-skins. You've been drenched from head to foot."

"Well, what of it? A little water won't hurt anybody. The more the
better, is my motto."

"Very well, then, I'll go," and the doctor reached for his big coat and
hat. Then he seized his grip, and followed the captain down to the
wharf.

"You sit there in the middle," the captain ordered, as they reached the
boat, "and keep yer head low in case the boom should take a sudden yank
over. Ye won't git so wet there, either."

The wind on the homeward run was almost dead ahead, and it was
necessary to beat from side to side of the channel. But the captain
knew every inch of the way, and he was almost as much at home here at
night as in the day. Up and up they steadily crept, while the _Roaring
Bess_ raced from side to side, tossing volumes of water at every
plunge. Rod was alert and active as a cat now, crouching close to the
captain, ready to obey his slightest command. How the boy did enjoy
it, and his whole body thrilled with the excitement of the wild run.
The more the yacht reeled, the greater his pleasure. But the doctor
had far different feelings. He liked the water, but not on such a
night as this. He was sure that the boat was going over every time a
furious gust struck her close-hauled sail, and he always gave a sigh of
relief when she righted herself again, with no more damage than some
extra water tossed on board.

They were opposite the head of the island now, and had just tacked for
their "short-leg" run, when, without the slightest sign of warning,
something struck the mast a terrific blow. The yacht reeled wildly,
the mast snapped like a pipe-stem, and fell with a splash into the
water, carrying sail and all with it.

The instant the blow came Rod sprang to his feet, and as he did so a
part of the rigging caught him, and swept him overboard. With a wild
cry for help, he tried to grasp something, but he could find nothing
upon which to place his fingers. The cold waters closed around him.
He tried to swim, to keep afloat, but the oil-skin suit hindered him.
He battled with the desperation of despair. It was a terrible fight he
made for life there in that inky blackness, with the water surging
about him, and trying to win him for its victim. It seemed that he had
been struggling for a long time, and could resist no longer