Lucy and Jack then tried to get the tarpaulin out to windward; instead of which, it carried them to leeward by the force of the wind.  The mast brought them up, or Heaven knows where their new invention would have taken them.  With infinite difficulty they got it down and kneeled upon it, and even then it struggled.  But Lucy would not be defeated; she made Jack gather it up in the middle, and roll it first to the right, then to the left, till it became a solid roll with two narrow open edges.  They then carried it abaft, and lowered it vertically over the stern-port; then suddenly turned it round, and sat down.  “Crack!” the wind opened it, and wrapped it round the boat and the trio.

“Hallo!” cried David, “it is foul of the rudder;” and, he whipped out his knife and made a slit in the stuff.  It now clung like a blister.

“There, Mr. Dodd, will not that keep the sea out?” asked Lucy, triumphantly.

“At any rate, it may help to keep us ahead of the sea.  Why, Jack, I seem to feel it lift her; it is as good as a mizzen.”

“But, oh, Mr. Dodd, there is another danger.  We may broach to.”

“How can she broach to when I am at the helm?  Here is the arm that won’t let her broach to.”

“Then I feel safe.”

“You are as safe as on your own sofa; it is the discomfort you are put to that worries me.”

“Don’t think so meanly of me, Mr. Dodd.  If it was not for my cowardice, I should enjoy this voyage far more than the luxurious ease you think so dear to me.  I despise it.”

“Mr. Dodd, now I am no longer afraid.  I am, oh, so sleepy.”

“No wonder—­go to sleep.  It is the best thing you can do.”

“Thank you, sir.  I am aware my conversation is not very interesting.”  Having administered this sudden bloodless scratch, to show that, at sea or ashore, in fair weather or foul, she retained her sex, Lucy disposed herself to sleep.

David, steering the boat with his left hand, arranged the cushion with his right.  She settled herself to sleep, for an irresistible drowsiness had followed the many hours of excitement she had gone through.  Twice the heavy plunging sea brought her into light contact with David.  She instantly awoke, and apologized to him with gentle dismay for taking so audacious a liberty with that great man, commander of the vessel; the third time she said nothing, a sure sign she was unconscious.

Then David, for fear she might hurt herself, curled his arm around her, and let her head decline upon his shoulder.  Her bonnet fell off; he put it reverently on the other side the helm.  The air now cleared, but the gale increased rather than diminished.  And now the moon rose large and bright.  The boat and masts stood out like white stone-work against the flint-colored sky, and the silver light played on Lucy’s face.  There she lay, all unconscious of her posture, on the man’s shoulder who loved her, and whom she had refused; her head thrown back