The shot to which was attached the line was
slipped into the muzzle.
"Back!" the old man ordered, and waved his hand. Then he pulled the
lanyard.
The line fled out of the box with a speed that made it smoke. But the
shot fell short.
"'Tis too much wind, skipper," squealed Washy Gallup. "You be
a-shootin' into the wind's eye. An' she's risin' ev'ry minute."
His only answer was a black look from Cap'n Trainor. The latter loaded
the gun again, and yet again. The last time he waited for every one to
get well back before he fired the cannon. When she went off she did
not burst as they half expected--she turned a double back somersault.
"'Tis no use, boys!" the captain roared at them, smiting his hands
together. "We must try the boat. But that's a hell's broth out there,
and no two ways about it."
The stranded schooner, all but hidden at times in the smother of flying
spume and jumping waves, hung halfway across the reef. They could see
men, like black specks, lashed to her after rigging. Louise, between
bursting waves, counted twenty of these figures.
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