discern the outline of a boat, laboring to reach the safety of the Rolfe end of the lake.
“It’s Jim Preston,” said Doctor Stevens. “He goes down to the summer resorts at the far end of the lake every Sunday morning with the mail and papers.”
“His boat’s got a lot of water in it from the way it is riding,” added Tom. “If the storm hits him he’ll never make it.”
“Jim should have known better than to have taken a chance when he could see this mess of weather brewing,” snorted the doctor.
“His wife’s sick,” put in Mrs. Blair, “and Jim’s probably taken an extra risk to get home as soon as possible.”
“I know,” said Doctor Stevens.
“He’s bailing by hand,” cried Tom. “That means something has gone wrong with the water pump on the engine.”
“Can you see what boat he has?” asked Doctor Stevens.
“It looks like the Flyer,” said Helen, who knew the lines of every motorboat on the lake.
“That’s the poorest wet weather boat Jim has,” said Doctor Stevens. “Every white cap slops over the side. She’s fast but a death trap in a storm. Either the Liberty or the Argosy would eat up weather like this.”
“Jim’s been overhauling the engines in his other boats,” said Tom, “and the Flyer is the only thing he has been using this spring.”
“Instead of standing here talking, let’s get down to the shore,” said Helen. “Maybe we can get someone to go out and help him.”
Without waiting for the others to reply, Helen started running toward the lake. She heard a cry behind her and turned to see Tom pointing toward the hills in the west.
The wind was whistling again and when she turned to look in the direction her brother pointed, she stopped suddenly. The black storm clouds were massing for the main attack and they were rolling together.
In the seconds that Helen watched, she saw them swirl toward a common center, heard the deafening rise of the wind and trembled as the clouds, now formed in a great funnel, started toward the lake.
“Come back, Helen, come back!” Tom shouted.
Forcing herself to overcome the storm terror which now gripped her, Helen looked out over the boiling waters of the lake.
The wind was whipping into a new frenzy and she could just barely see the Flyer above the white-capped waves. Jim Preston was making a brave effort to reach shore and Helen knew that the little group at her own home were probably the only ones in Rolfe who knew of the boatman’s danger. Seconds counted and ignoring the warning cries from her brother, she hurried on toward the lake.
The noise of the oncoming tornado beat on her ears, but she dared not look toward the west. If she did she knew she would turn and race for the shelter and security of Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar.
The Flyer was rolling dangerously as Jim Preston made for the shore and Helen doubted if the boatman would ever make it.
On and on the sleek craft pushed its way, the waves breaking over its slender, speedy nose and cascading back into the open cockpit in which Jim Preston was bailing furiously. The Flyer was nosing deeper into the waves as it shipped more water. When the ignition wires got wet the motor would stop and Preston’s last chance would be gone.
Helen felt someone grab her arms. It was Tom.
“Come back!” he cried. “The tornado will be on us in another five minutes!”
“We’ve got to help Mr. Preston,” shouted Helen, and she refused to move.
“All right, then I stay too,” yelled Tom, who kept anxious eyes on the approaching tornado.
The Flyer was less than a hundred yards from shore but was settling deeper and deeper into the water.
“It’s almost shallow enough for him to wade ashore,” cried Helen.
“Wind would sweep him off his feet,” replied Tom.
The speedboat was making slow progress, barely staggering along in its battle against the wind and waves.
“He’s going to make it!” shouted Helen.
“I hope so,” said Tom, but his words were lost in the wind.
Fifty yards more and the Flyer would nose into the sandy beach which marked the Rolfe end of the lake.
“Come on, Flyer, come on!” cried Helen.
“The engine’s dying,” said Tom. “Look, the nose is going under that big wave.”
With the motor dead, the Flyer lost way and buried its nose under a giant white-cap.
“He’s jumping out of the boat,” added Helen. “It’s shallow enough so he can wade in if he can keep his feet.”
Ignoring the increasing danger of the tornado, they ran across the sandy beach.
“Join hands,” cried Helen. “We can wade out and pull him the last few feet.”
Realizing that his sister would go on alone if he did not help her, Tom locked his hands in hers and they plunged into the shallow water.
Jim Preston, on the verge of exhaustion, staggered through the waves.
The Flyer, caught between two large rollers, filled with water and disappeared less than ten seconds after it had been abandoned.
The boatman floundered toward them and Tom and Helen found themselves hard-pressed to keep their own feet, for a strong undertow threatened to upset them and sweep them out into the lake.
Preston lunged toward them and they caught him as he fell.
Tom turned momentarily to watch the approach of the tornado.
“Hurry!” he cried. “We’ll be able to reach Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar if we run.”
“I can’t run,” gasped Preston. “You youngsters get me to shore. Then save yourselves.”
“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Helen.
With their encouragement, Preston made a new effort and they made their escape from the dangerous waters of the lake.
Alone, Helen or Tom could have raced up the hill to Doctor Stevens in less than a minute but with an almost helpless man to drag between them, they made slow progress.
“We’ve got to hurry,” warned Tom as the noise of the storm told of its rapid approach.
“Go on, go on! Leave me here!” urged Preston.
But Helen and Tom were deaf to his pleas and they forced him to use the last of his strength in a desperate race up the hill ahead of the tornado.
Doctor Stevens met them half way up the hill and almost carried Preston the rest of the way.
“Across the street and into my storm cellar,” he told them.
