THE ROCKS
It was a murky dawn and no sun followed in its wake. The air was heavy
and oppressive, and low rumblings of thunder echoed in from sea. Skippy
shook his head worriedly as they chugged out of sight of the bay to let
the _Davy Jones_ pass by.
“I don’t feel right this morning, Big Joe,” the boy insisted. “Say what
you like, but we shouldn’t wait—we oughta tail the _Davy Jones_, right
away—_this minute_, before the storm comes on.”
“Now ye be worryin’ agin, hey?” Tully asked impatiently. “That storm’s
out at sea and it won’t hit the Channel. Sure ’tis just a murky
mornin’.”
“All right,” said Skippy, “but I know.”
Tully was beginning to be annoyed with Skippy’s gloomy predictions and
he showed it. Yet somehow it gave him a little uneasiness and from time
to time he glanced thoughtfully from the boy to the distant black
horizon.
The storm clouds were coming nearer and thunder rolled ominously over
their heads. Finally Tully turned over his motor and set her nose about.
After she had warmed up, he opened wide the throttle and headed for the
bay.
“I’ll be keepin’ her open and beat it for the Channel soon’s we get
across,” he explained. “We’ll be gettin’ there sure ’fore the storm
breaks bad.”
“I hope so,” said Skippy, “because it’s travelin’ in from sea, fast.”
“We’ll be goin’ round by The Rocks and save fifteen minutes or so,”
Tully said hopefully searching the boy’s face. “’Tis high enough tide
for to take a chance.”
The Rocks, that bane of all mariners who were unfamiliar with the
lurking waters beyond the bay, could be safely passed in small boats at
high tide. There were few, however, who took advantage of this
concession of Nature to the small nautical man, nearly all mariners
preferring the greater safety that was offered them by going the long
way around Inland Beach.
A high wind was steadily rising as they chugged into the vicinity of The
Rocks, and it prevented Skippy from hearing that call of distress for
which he was so intently listening. Whether the wind was against them,
he did not know, for the howling tempest and turbulent water drowned out
all other sounds.
The storm broke after a few minutes and rain lashed at them from all
sides. Tully said not a word, but stayed at his wheel silent and grave.
And by his averted head, Skippy knew that he, too, was listening for
that siren call from the _Davy Jones_.
Salt spray flung itself up over the bow and into Skippy’s face. He could
have moved farther back to avoid it, but he seemed incapable of action
then, and sat tense and white, listening, listening....
Tully did not miss it. The boy’s tragic expression so dismayed him that
he felt for the first time in his life that he should have mended his
ways while there was still time. All his sins seemed to have crowded
into Skippy’s face to accuse him.
And still they heard no call of distress from the _Davy Jones_.
Tully, desperate, raced his engine until they whistled through the
foaming spray. Then suddenly they felt the keel grind under them with
such force that it took all their combined strength to steady the boat
and keep her from turning over.
“What happened, do you s’pose?” Skippy asked with white face.
“Sufferin’ swordfish, kid!” Tully cried. “I think she’s stove in—The
Rocks! _Look!_”
He pointed and Skippy looked, to see a jagged hole in the bottom of the
kicker. Water came in through it rapidly and even as he stared at it, it
trickled over his feet and up to his ankles.