"Take the stick, Georgie," said Dan, suddenly, his cheeks white. "Head
her up the wind. Steady. Sight the figurehead on Pearson's loft. Here's
too much sail for a frigate."

But before the words were well uttered, the mast doubled up and coiled
like a whip-lash, there was a report like the crack of doom, and half of
the thing crashed short over the bows, dragging the heavy sail in the
waves.

Then there came a great laugh of thunder close above, and the black
cloud dropped like a curtain round us: the squall had broken.

"Cut it off, Dan! quick!" I cried. "Let it alone," said he, snapping
together his jack-knife; "it's as good as a best bower-anchor. Now I'll
take the tiller, Georgie. Strong little hand," said he, bending so that
I didn't see his face. "And lucky it's good as strong. It's saved us
all.--My God, Georgie! where's Faith?"

I turned. There was no Faith in the boat. We both sprang to our feet,
and so the tiller swung round and threw us broadside to the wind, and
between the dragging mast and the centre-board drowning seemed too good
for us.

"You'll have to cut it off," I cried again; but he had already ripped
half through the canvas and was casting it loose.

At length he gave his arm a toss. With the next moment, I never shall
forget the look of horror that froze Dan's face.