After this he was kept occupied. Sometimes he used the bucket and sometimes the baler, for water came on board fast. Now and then he imagined Wyndham slackened the sheet to ease a plunge that might swamp the boat, but this was Harry's business and he must not neglect his. Balancing himself against the lurching, he scooped up the splashing flood. When a gust heeled the boat over it gained on him, and then as the pressure slackened he held his own, but while he used his best efforts he could not bale her dry. At length, when his arms ached and he was very wet, he stopped for a few moments. "Don't know if I can keep it up for long; I'm horribly cramped," he said. "Can't we drop the lug and tie in a reef?" "I doubt if she'd hold her course with sail shortened," Wyndham replied. "The breeze has drawn another point ahead and we'll lose time we can't spare if we're forced to tack. Stick it out, Bob. We'll get smoother water when we pick up the land again." He stopped and jerked the tiller, a moment too late, for a sea came over the bow. The water foamed about Marston's knees, the lantern went out, and he thought he felt the compass strike his legs. "Bale!" said Wyndham, sharply. "She'll capsize if she ships another before you get this lot out." Marston did his best, while the lantern and compass washed against the bucket. There was no use in stopping to pick them up, since he could not get a light and Harry was now steering by the wind. He must keep her as near it as she would point until they crossed the bay and found the land again. Marston hoped this would be soon. For some time he did not look up and afterwards wondered how Wyndham kept her afloat, but at length the plunges got easier and the water did not come on board so fast. By degrees, he got it under, and stopping to stretch his cramped limbs, looked to windward. The sea was smoother and the breeze not so fresh. There was a vague dark line not far off and he knew they were approaching the beach. "We'll be round the point in a few minutes," said Wyndham. "Bale her dry, and then look out for the red light at San Cristobal." Soon after he stopped baling, Marston saw a red twinkle. The gig was sailing very fast, swaying down and recovering buoyantly as the gusts came and went. The lug-yard bent in a strained curve and showers of spray blew into the sail. Marston, stooping behind the gunwale, managed to strike a match and told Wyndham the time when he had looked at his watch. "We have made a good run, but she'll beat it going back, when we'll have the wind a point or two aft," he added. "This ought to give us an hour, or perhaps an hour-and-a-half, at the port." "It will be enough. Unluckily, the tide is ebbing yet, and although there's not much rise and fall, I don't know if we can both leave the boat. It would be awkward if she grounded and we couldn't shove her off."