She hauled on the mainsheet as she spoke. The Tortoise rounded up into the wind, lay over till the water began to pour over her side, righted herself again and stood suddenly on an even keel, her sails flapping wildly, the boat herself trembling like a creature desperately frightened. Then she fell off on her new tack. Priscilla dragged Miss Rutherford up to windward. Frank, guided by instinct rather than by any knowledge of what was happening, scrambled up past the end of the long tiller. Priscilla let the main sheet run out again. The Tortoise raced straight for the shore. “Keep her as she’s going, Cousin Frank. I’ll get the sail off her.” For a minute or two there was wild confusion. Priscilla treading on Miss Rutherford without remorse or apology, struggled with the halyard. The sail bellied hugely, dipped into the sea to leeward and was hauled desperately on board. The rain streamed down on them, each drop starting up again like a miniature fountain when it splashed upon the wood of the boat. The Tortoise, nearly half full of water, still staggered towards the shore under her foresail. Priscilla hauled at the rope of the centreboard. “Run her up on the beach,” she shouted. “If we do knock a hole in her it can’t be helped. Oh glory, glory! look at that!” One of the tents tore itself from its fastenings, flapped wildly in the air and then collapsed on the ground, a writhing heaving mass of soaked canvas. The Tortoise struck heavily on the shore. Priscilla leaped over her bows and ran up the beach with the anchor in her hand. She rammed one of its flukes deep into the gravel. Then she turned towards the boat and shouted: “You help Frank out, Miss Rutherford. I must run on and see what’s happening to those tents.” A young woman, rain soaked and dishevelled, knelt beside the fallen tent. She was working with fierce energy at the guy ropes, such of them as still clung to their pegs. They were hopelessly entangled with the others which had broken free and all of them were knotted and twisted round corners of the flapping canvas. “If I were you,” said Priscilla, “I’d leave those things alone till the storm blows over. You’re only making them worse.” The young woman looked round at Priscilla and smoothed her blown wet hair from her face. “Come and help me,” she said, “please.” “What’s the good of hurrying?” said Priscilla. “My husband’s underneath.” “Well, I suppose he’s all right. In fact, I daresay he’s a good deal drier there than we are outside. We’d far better go into your tent and wait.” “He’ll smother.” “Not he. If he’s suffering from anything this minute I should say it is draughts.” The canvas heaved convulsively. It was evident that some one underneath was making desperate efforts to get out. “He’s smothering. I know he is.” “Very well,” said Priscilla. “I’ll give you a help if you like; I don’t know much about tents and I may simply make things worse. However, I’ll try.”