With the oars the two boys made a sort of arched framework, secured with ropes, and over it spread the canvas cockpit cover, lashing it down to the forward and side cleats.  This work was not unattended with danger and difficulty.  Time and again as they worked the boys had to lie flat on their stomachs and hang on while the Flying Fish leaped a wave like a horse taking a barrier.  At last, however, their task was completed, and the improvised spray hood served to some extent to break the waves that now threatened momentarily to engulf the laboring craft.

“Now to get out a sea anchor!” shouted the indefatigable Tubby.

He seized up an old bait tub, a boat hook and a “swabbing-out” broom, and lashed them all together in a sort of bridle.  Then he attached the Flying Fish’s mooring cable to the contrivance and paid it out for a hundred feet or more, while the storm-battered craft drifted steadily backward.  Instead, however, of lying beam on to the big sea, she now headed up into them, the “drag,” as it is sometimes called, serving to keep her bow swung up to the threatening combers.

“There, she’ll ride for a while, anyhow,” breathed Tubby, when this was done.

“What’s to be done now?” shouted Merritt in his car.

“Nothing,” was the response; “we’ve got to lie here till this thing blows over.”

“It’s breaking a little to the south now,” exclaimed Merritt, pointing to where a rift began to appear in the solid cloud curtain.

This was cheering news, and even the seasick but plucky Hiram, who had been bailing for all he was worth, despite his misery, began to cheer up.

“Hurrah!  I guess the worst of our troubles are over,” cried Tubby.  “It certainly looks as if the sea was beginning to go down, and the wind has dropped, I’m sure.”

That this was the case became apparent shortly.  There was a noticeable decrease in the size and height of the waves and the wind abated in proportion.  In half an hour after the rift had been first noticed by Merritt, the black squall had passed, and the late afternoon sun began to shine in a pallid way through the driving cloud masses.

The lads, however, were still in a serious fix.  They had been driven so far out to sea that the land was blotted out altogether.  All about them was only the still heaving Atlantic.  The sun, too, was westering fast, and it would not be long before darkness fell.

Without gasoline and with no sail, they had no means of making land.  Worse still, they were in the track of the in and out-bound steamers to and from New York—­according to Tubby’s reckoning—­and they had no lights.

“Well, we seem to have got out of the frying pan into the fire,” said Merritt in a troubled voice.  “It’s the last time I’ll ever come out without lights and a mast and sail.”