Peterboro would rise
over the crest of a tall one and dip its bow deep in the next, or leap
clear to strike with a slap that made Stella's heart jump. She had never
undergone quite that rough and tumble experience in a small craft. She
was being beaten farther out and down the lake, and her arms were
growing tired. Nor was there any slackening of the wind.

The combined rain and slaps of spray soaked her thoroughly. A puddle
gathered about her knees in the bilge, sloshing fore and aft as the
craft pitched, killing the natural buoyancy of the canoe so that she
dove harder. Stella took a chance, ceased paddling, and bailed with a
small can. She got a tossing that made her head swim while she lay in
the trough. And when she tried to head up into it again, one comber
bigger than its fellows reared up and slapped a barrel of water inboard.
The next wave swamped her.

Sunk to the clamps, Stella held fast to the topsides, crouching on her
knees, immersed to the hips in water that struck a chill through her
flesh. She had the wit to remember and act upon Jack Fyfe's coaching,
namely, to sit tight and hang on. No sea that ever ran can sink a canoe.
Wood is buoyant. So long as she could hold on, the submerged craft would
keep her head and shoulders above water. But it was numbing cold. Fed by
glacial streams, Roaring Lake is icy in hottest midsummer.

What with paddling and bailing and the excitement of the struggle,
Stella had wasted no time gazing about for other boats. She knew that if
any one at the camp saw her, rescue would be speedily effected. Now,
holding fast and sitting quiet, she looked eagerly about as the swamped
canoe rose loggily on each wave. Almost immediately she was heartened by
seeing distinctly some sort of craft plunging through the blow. She had
not long to wait after that, for the approaching launch was a lean-lined
speeder, powerfully engined, and she was being forced. Stella supposed
it was one of the Abbey runabouts. Even with her teeth chattering and
numbness fastening itself upon her, she shivered at the chances the man
was taking. It was no sea for a speed boat to smash into at thirty miles
an hour. She saw it shoot off the top of one wave and disappear in a
white burst of spray, slash through the next and bury itself deep again,
flinging a foamy cloud far to port and starboard. Stella cried futilely
to the man to slow down. She could hang on a long time yet, but her
voice carried no distance.