As he spoke there came a low growl of thunder and the sky was illumined with a livid glare.

“Here she comes!” yelled Merritt; “better get out those slickers or we’ll be soaked.”

Tubby opened a locker and produced the yellow waterproof coats.  The boys had hardly thrust their arms into them before the big sea struck them.  Thanks to Tubby’s steering, however, the Flying Fish met it without shipping more than a few cupfuls of water.

The next minute the full fury of the storm enveloped the Boy Scouts and the Flying Fish was laboring in a heaving wilderness of lashed and tumbling water.

“Keep her head up!” roared Merritt, above the screaming of the wind and the now almost continuous roar and rattle of the thunder.  It grew almost dark, so overcast was the sky, and under the somber, driving cloud wrack the white wave crests gleamed like savage teeth.

Hiram crouched on the bottom of the boat, too terrified to speak, while Tubby and Merritt strove desperately to keep the little craft from “broaching to,” in which case she would have shipped more water than would have been at all convenient, not to say safe.

As if it were some vindictive live thing, seized with a sudden spite against the boat and its occupants, the storm roared about the dazed boys.

The Flying Fish, however, rode the sweeping seas gallantly, breasting even the biggest combers bravely and buoyantly.

“It’s getting worse,” shouted Tubby, gazing back at Merritt, who was bending over the laboring motor.

“Yes, you bet it is!” roared back the engineer; “and I’m afraid of a short circuit if this rain keeps up.”

“Cover up the engine with that spare slicker,” suggested Tubby.

“That’s a good idea,” responded the other, rummaging in a stern locker and producing the garment in question.  In another moment he had it over the engine, protecting the spark plugs and the high-tension wires from the rain and spray.  But the wind was too high to permit of the covering remaining unfastened, and with a ball of marlin the young engineer lashed the improvised motor cover firmly in place.

Hiram, with a white face, now crawled up from the bottom of the boat.  In addition to being scared, he was seasick from the eccentric motions of the storm-tossed craft.

“Do you think we’ll ever get ashore again?” he asked, crawling to Merritt’s side.

“Sure,” responded the corporal confidently. “’Come on, buck up, Hiram!  You know, a Boy Scout never says die.  We’ll be back in camp in three hours’ time, when this squall blows itself out.”

“I—­I don’t want you to think me a coward, Merritt,” quavered Hiram, “but—­but you know this is enough to scare any fellow.”

Indeed, he seemed right.  The Flying Fish appeared no more than a tiny chip on the immense rollers the storm had blown up.  Time and again it looked as if she would never be able to climb the huge walls of green water that towered above her; but every time she did, and, as the storm raged on, the confidence of the boys began to grow.