"Our turn will come by and by," tersely remarked Mr. Burgess. Events proved that he was a prophet.
Presently the Anaconda, far out to windward, was struck by a savage squall. Down came her flying kites by the run. I looked at her through the glass and saw her heel over until the water boiled and bubbled on her lee deck. All was now activity on the Athlon. The boats were swung in and everything was made snug for the approaching gale. Mr. Havens determined not to reef till the last moment, and just before the squall, with its long line of white water in marked contrast with the murky clouds above, smote us, we clewed up the gaff-*topsail. It wasn't an instant too soon. Had that topsail been set when the blast hove us down nearly on our beam ends the topmast must have snapped off short, like the brittle end of a carrot. Mr. Havens was steering. He gave her a few spokes of lee helm and kept her shaking in the wind till the first fury of the squall was exhausted. It was almost as dark as pitch for ten minutes. When it cleared up a little we cast anxious eyes to windward and to leeward to see what had become of our companions. The Anaconda had snugged down to a couple of reefs. The 40-footer Chispa, a brand-new Burgess boat, was taking it easy under storm trysail and foresail. The sloop Concord was scudding back to Black Rock under a bare pole, with the Fanny chasing her under short sail.
