He paid no heed to it at first, only thinking that the boat must be a little leaky, and knowing that he ought by rights to seek forward a little tin can and bale the water out.

But the management of the sail and rudder fully occupied him till he made the next tack, when it struck him that the quant.i.ty of water had certainly increased, as it ran over to the other side.

But still it caused him no uneasiness. He only felt that before long he might have wet feet, and he kept on looking out ahead for Dunroe.

At the next tack, there was undoubtedly a good deal more water, and the bottom boards of the boat kept rising, one going so far as to set sail on a little voyage of its own, and floating about.

What was to be done?--to throw the boat up in the wind, and stop and bale, or to sail on as fast as he could, and get to Dunroe?

Thinking that the water did not much matter, he kept on sailing tack after tack, till the water increased so much that it brought with it a chill of horror as well as cold; for there could be no mistake in the fact that the weight of water in the boat interfered largely with its progress, and Max felt that if he delayed baling much longer she might fill and sink.

He hesitated for a moment or two, and then tried to turn the boat's head so as to meet the wind. In this he succeeded, and, as the sail shivered and flapped, he looked for the tin baler. This he did not find, because in his excitement he forgot to look in the right place, so in his flurry he took off his cap and set to work with that, dipping and pouring the water over the side. A tiring job at the best of times, and with proper implements; wearisome in the extreme with no better baler than a cap; but Max made up in perseverance what was wanting in skill, and before very long he had satisfied himself, by comparison with some paint-marks, that the water was not gaining.

At the same time he did not feel that he was reducing it much; and the difficulty stared him in the face that he could not keep on baling and make progress too.

Taking out his knife, he made a scratch at the level of the water, and, once more taking the helm, the boat gracefully bent over and sped on.

The journey now grew tediously laborious. The afternoon was pa.s.sing, and it seemed to Max that he would never reach Dunroe; for at every tack he paused to examine his mark, and found that the water had gained, so that he was compelled to stop and bale once more.

He looked for the leak, but it was invisible. All he could make out was that it must be somewhere under the boards laid in the bottom of the boat.

For quite a couple of hours did this go on, with the water still increasing, and Dunroe appeared to be as far off as ever; while the lad's task was Sisyphean, since, as fast as he baled the water out, it seemed to return.

There was something else, too, for him to combat. At first he had worked with plenty of spirit, but after many repet.i.tions of the task a deadly sense of fatigue began to grow upon him, and as it affected his body, so it did his mind, till it seemed as if a great black cloud were appearing. Despair rode upon that cloud, and, as he worked, his face burned, but his heart chilled, and in imagination he saw himself sinking helplessly, when his arms should fall down to his sides, and he could do no more.

The result was that he baled with less effect, and instead of keeping the water under, it began to master him; and he found at last, that, in spite of all his efforts, his knife-mark was covered, and the water kept inches above, and still increased.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

HOW MAX FETCHED HELP.

Max Blande's confidence was on the ebb. Fortunately for him, the tide was on the ebb as well, and, though he was not aware of the fact, helping him on his journey.

As the confidence failed, despair's black cloud grew heavy. The idea that the leak was growing bigger became stronger, and with it was the feeling that before long the water would come in with a rush, and down he would go.

It was very horrible; and, as he asked himself what he must do, he clutched at the first idea suggesting escape which came, and that was, that, much as he regretted being unable to get help for his two companions in misfortune, he must save his own life, and the only way to do that was by running the boat ash.o.r.e. Which side of the loch should he take--west or east?

Dunroe was on the east side, but the west coast was nearer, and he steered for that; but, feeling that this was cowardly, since he might get ash.o.r.e and manage to walk to Dunroe, he altered his course, after a struggle with self, and sat with beating heart, slowly sailing on, with the water rising and washing about his legs.

That last tack seemed as if it would never end, and it was only by leaning sideways from time to time that he could catch sight of the coast he was approaching, the sail shutting off the greater part of his view.

To his dismay, he could see nothing but rocks, rocks everywhere, grey, and black, and ruddy golden with the weeds. The sea, too, foamed and danced about them. No cove floored with silver sand, no smooth river into which he could glide; and he shivered as he felt, by antic.i.p.ation, the crash of the boat running on to the rocks at speed, throwing him out, and the retiring waves bearing him away, and then?

It was too horrible. But there were the rocks; he was getting nearer and nearer. He could hear the splashing of the water, and he must be ready to make a bold leap on to the nearest before the waves could catch him, and then he might escape.

Nearer and nearer; and it seemed a desperate thing to do--to run that boat ash.o.r.e, but it was his only chance, for she was sinking fast, he was sure.

Nearer and nearer. A few more minutes, and he would be ash.o.r.e, and--

He suddenly wrenched the tiller round, the boat ran up into the wind, careened over, and bore away on the other tack.

From Max Blande's cowardice?

No; the sail had sprung aside for a moment, as his doubting hand had given way a little, slightly altering his course; and, as he gazed wildly ahead, there, half covered by the swelling canvas, and not a quarter of a mile away, the old castle of Dunroe towered up on its bold base of storm-beaten rock.

"Will the boat float long enough for me to get there?" Max asked himself.

He decided to try, and now came the most difficult part of the steering he had encountered that day, and it was not until he had made three or four attempts that he lowered the sail, about fifty yards from the rocky natural pier from which they had started, and, to his great delight, saw Long Shon and Tavish watching him, and, after a consultation, run round to the little bay, out of which they came rowing in a dinghy.

"Wha's ta young maister?" cried Tavish fiercely.

"Wha's Scood?" cried Long Shon.

Max hurriedly explained.

"Ma cootness!" exclaimed Tavish; "she tought they was poth trooned."

"Why, ta poat's full o' watter!" cried Long Shon.

"Yes; she is leaking and sinking fast."

"Ma cootness!" cried Tavish, getting in, to Max's horror.

"Don't! you'll sink her. Let me get out."

"Na, na. Why tidn't you bale ta watter oot?"

"I did, but it was no use."

Tavish gave a snort, opened the locker in the bows, and then began to toss out the water like a jerky cascade, Max watching him wildly, but, to his great relief, seeing the water begin gradually to sink.

"She's knockit a creat hole in her pottom," said Long Shon. "t.i.t she hit on ta rocks?"

"No, no; it came on all of a sudden."

"Why, she's cot ta cork oot!" cried Tavish, drawing his sleeve up above his elbow, and thrusting his arm down to lift one of the bottom boards beneath the centre thwart, and feeling about for a few moments before turning reproachfully to Max.

"She shouldna pull oot ta cork."

"No," said Long Shon. "She pulls oot ta cork to let ta watter oot.

She's pulled oot ta cork to let ta watter in."

Tavish growled as he recommenced baling, and then smiled at Max.

"I did not touch it. I did not know there was a cork," said the latter rather piteously.

"Then she must ha' come out hersel'," said Tavish. "Ye'll know next time what to do."