Then it swept up to her, a ripple, a chop, and very close behind that the short, steep, lake combers with a wind that blew off the tops as each wave-head broke in white, bubbling froth.  Immediately she began to lose ground.  She had expected that, and it did not alarm her.  If she could keep the canoe bow on, there was an even chance that the squall would blow itself out in half an hour.  But keeping the canoe bow on proved a task for stout arms.  The wind would catch all that forward part which thrust clear as she topped a sea and twist it aside, tending always to throw her broadside into the trough.  Spray began to splash aboard.  The seas were so short and steep that the 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.