"This won't do," said Fessenden. "I must get some sail on to steady her. Do you think you're strong enough to hold the wheel, Betty?" She gripped the spokes, her hands beneath his. The quiet strength of his clasp comforted her mind no less than her body,--in a moment she nodded confidently. Leaving the helm in her charge, Fessenden literally crawled forward. Ordinarily, the jib was handled by means of the sheet led aft through a couple of small blocks to the helmsman, so that one man could both sail and steer without moving from his place. Now, however, the fierceness of the wind impelled Fessenden to extra precautions in his endeavor to make sail. He took care to wrap the sheet twice about a cleat before hoisting away, but as soon as the jib rose above the low gunwale, the wind tore it from the lower bolt-ropes, and it blew straight out, held only by the bowsprit halliard. He would have attempted to recover the ironed-out sail by reaching for it with a boat-hook--a foolhardy undertaking at any time--but Betty, divining his intention as he showed black against the whitening crest of the waves, screamed so shrilly that he desisted. There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to the wheel. "Child," he said, "you're wet through, and I'm afraid we've a wetter time before us. There's no use in your staying out here to get soaked every other minute. Go in the cabin, out of harm's way." "But you're being soaked, too." "I'm a man." "I'll stay with you." "No, you won't. I can't think of letting you do that. Watch your chance and get inside there. Slide the hatch-cover to, sharp, before any water gets in." Rather to his surprise, she yielded, and dexterously slipped into the cabin. Although her presence had been more comfort to him than he realized until she was gone, he bent his whole attention to keeping the _Wisp_ from broaching to, which would have meant the end. The worst of the rain-squall had passed, but the night was as black as a wolf's mouth. The wind blowing half a gale, piled up the waves behind the _Wisp_ to a height that might well have proved a menace to a craft three times her size. Thanks to her tight-closed hatches and her sea-worthiness, she shed water like a petrel, yet the towering swell of the Atlantic might crush her at any moment. If they fell an instant into the trough of the sea, they were lost. Fessenden contemplated the possibility of constructing a sea-anchor. But whatever might have been possible for an experienced seaman, his nautical knowledge was too limited for him to undertake the work. And even if he could make and successfully launch a sea-anchor, the most dangerous part of the task would follow--that long and terrible moment it would take for the sloop to swing round, head on to the sea. The waves might roll her over and over before he could even clasp Betty in his arms. The risk was too great. He breathed an inward prayer, and held the _Wisp_ resolutely before the wind.