CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM.

Ziz-z-z-z-z-z!

A ragged, flaming bolt of lightning ripped across the black sky. It showed the broad reach of the St. Lawrence in the vicinity of Piquetville lashed into a fury of white-capped waves and turbulent waters.

Through the furious electric storm the _River Swallow_ was wallowing along, rolling and plunging terrifically. Owing to her narrow beam, the craft was far more “cranky” than an ordinary boat, and to anyone not used to her actions in rough water, the experience would have been an alarming one. Besides being familiar with the craft he was guiding, however, Ralph had other things to worry him beside the storm.

For one thing, La Rue,—or Hawke, as Ralph still knew him,—was standing beside him, pistol in hand, and from what Ralph knew of the man, there was little doubt that he would hesitate to use the weapon if the need arose. The boy had another cause for worry in the fact that he did not know what his companions, who had gone ashore, would think of the disappearance of the _River Swallow_. He knew that they would be worrying over his situation on board her, and the thought of their anxiety disquieted him to the full as much as his own predicament.

But, with it all, Ralph had a certain grim satisfaction in one factor of his problem. Below decks in a bunk, with a badly damaged head, incurred in his fall down the steps leading from the bridge, lay Malvin. The man was incapacitated for duty and was, in fact, only half conscious. As he had fallen from the bridge, it was La Rue who had seized Ralph’s arms before the boy could sound the alarm, and who had ordered Ralph, upon the pain of being shot down, to steer the _River Swallow_ out of the harbor. The young skipper had no recourse but to obey, and so the _River Swallow_ was struggling with the storm, with an inexperienced man—Hansen—in the engine room and on the bridge a boy who was menaced with a pistol in the hands of the diamond smuggler.

With the storm had arisen a wind that screeched and howled like a witches’ carnival about the _River Swallow_. The craft was rather high out of the water and of light draught, like most of the St. Lawrence River craft. She pitched and rolled awesomely under the blast. There was no real danger, as Ralph well knew, but, as has been said, to anyone unused to her violent motions in a storm, the wild behavior of the _River Swallow_ was, to say the least, alarming.

To complicate matters, it was pitchy dark, the frequent flashes of lightning alone illumining the gloom. The wind was blowing the same way as the current, and below them lay a labyrinth of rapids, shoals and islands that required an experienced skipper to thread, even by daylight.

“This is a fine fix,” thought Ralph to himself, as the wind tore about him, the waters rolled high and the lightning flashed and zigzagged across the thunder-ridden sky. “If I ever get the _River Swallow_ through this without piling her up on a shoal or getting the bottom ripped out of her in some rapids, I’m entitled to a gold medal.”

“Will this get worse?” asked La Rue.

The boy noted with glee that there was a note of apprehension in the fellow’s voice.

“I hope not,” Ralph rejoined, shaking his head fearsomely.

“Why?” La Rue was scared. It was plain enough in his voice, which was nervous and jerky. “Are—are we in any danger?” he demanded tremblingly.

“The—the very g-g-g-greatest,” exclaimed Ralph, cleverly acting the part of a seriously alarmed young skipper.

“You mean that if the storm does not die down we may be wrecked?”

“The storm will get a lot worse before it gets any better,” rejoined Ralph. “This is one of the worst nights I have ever seen on the river.”

The _River Swallow_ gave a fearful roll, almost burying her lee gunwale in flying spume. An exclamation that was almost a shriek burst from La Rue’s lips. The man was ashen pale. He was terrified, and, moreover, he was becoming conscious of another feeling. What this was, we shall see before long.

“Gracious! I thought we were gone that time!” cried Ralph, appearing to be on the verge of panic.

“Then there is a pup-pup-possibility that the boat may capsize?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ralph gravely.

A groan escaped La Rue.

“You really think that, ker-ker-captain?”

Ralph couldn’t help smiling at the title La Rue had conferred on him in his fawning, miserable fright.

“Of course I do,” replied Ralph. “Why, her timbers are very thin. She was only built for a racing machine, not for such work as this.”

Bang! Who-o-o-o-f!

A big sea, which Ralph had purposely met quartering, smote the _River Swallow_ a terrific buffet on the port bow. The spray and spume flew high in the air, drenching the occupants of the bridge.

“A few more of those and we’re goners, sure,” said Ralph with a grin, which he had to turn away his face to conceal, as La Rue broke into a whimper.

“Isn’t there anything you can do, captain?”

“Nothing, except trust to Providence that we don’t go to the bottom within the next half hour,” rejoined Ralph.

Another huge wave hit the craft. A tremor ran through her but it was nothing to the anguish that convulsed the terrified La Rue as the sea struck.

He was now a ghastly blending of two hues, a pasty yellow, a greenish white.

Biff! Bang! Another buffeting blow. Skipper Ralph was actually beginning to enjoy himself.

“Oh-h-h-h! Ah-h-h-h!” quivered the frightened wretch at his elbow.

“Hadn’t you better hand me that pistol?” asked Ralph sweetly. “You might shoot yourself, you know.”

A groan was the only response from La Rue. The man was abject, disgusting in his cravenness.

But Ralph had no mercy upon him.

“It’s getting worse,” he said positively.

“Wer-wer-worse!”

“That’s what. I did think for a while that we might weather it. I know different now. Hawke, we have not much longer to live.”

“Der-der-der-do you mer-mer-mer-mean that we are ger-ger-going to be d-d-d-drowned?” stuttered La Rue, clasping his hands.

“Brace up! Don’t be a coward! Face drowning like a man, Hawke!”

And skipper Ralph contrived it so that another big wave came racing and rolling over the _River Swallow’s_ sharp bow. It was the last straw. La Rue went to pieces utterly.