About an hour from then it was dark as possible; the wind was fairly hard, and kept the rain off, of course. Christobel tried not to think of her mother. The point was to get Pamela, and the likelihood pointed to the swamping of the dinghy. It sickened Crow to remember how probable that was, and to hearten herself she called up the memory of the little boat on the day of the big thunderstorm--whether towed or free, she had _lived_, anyway--and was this sea any worse? Christobel thought it was about the same, "Much of a muchness," she murmured; and Adrian asked: "What’s that you are saying?" Crow told him what she was thinking. "Oh, _this_ is worse," said Adrian decisively; "we’ve had ten days of ups and downs to ruffle it, and the wind you get in a thunderstorm isn’t the same as a bad turn like this. Crow, I’ll get the night-glass. We might see something." Christobel gripped his arm, and suggested a change of direction. If they made a course towards Peterock, they would have a fair wind, strong--but a tough tide against them. That would keep them from getting too fast--to nowhere in particular. Keep them neutral, as it were. Adrian liked the idea, also said he: "Please remember we’ve had nothing to eat, my dear girl. I’m hollow, dying of hunger." "So am I," agreed Crow, "and our strength must be kept up, whatever happens. Addie, why not lie-to?" Adrian laughed, because he knew this was always the end and aim of Crow’s manoeuvres in bad weather, and especially at food-times. The comfort of being able to do things while your craft managed herself was indescribable. "I’ll have a look round first," he said. He had got out the night-glass, to which he was not well accustomed, and the result of using it was that he felt sure he saw something to leeward--something dark and small showing up on the foam. They let out the mainsail and jib, kept the yawl away, and ran off in the direction indicated. _Messenger_ strained through the tossing water, dipping her bowsprit till the little jib was drenched. It was fruitless. Whatever it was, it had gone. After that they went on again in pursuit of another delusion, and, by the time a third black patch had disappointed them, Crow believed there was something the matter with the glass. Perhaps there was. Anyway, these things were snares.