"She's lost steerage way!" "Motor's gone dead," howled back Merritt laconically.
"Great Scott, we are in for it now! What's the matter ?" "No gasolene," yelled Merritt.
"Sosh-osh-soh!" A huge green wave climbed on to the Flying Fish's bow, shaking her from stem to stern like a terrier shakes a rat.
"We've got to do something quick, or we'll be swamped!" roared Merritt.
"The cockpit cover, quick!" shouted Tubby, steadying himself in the bucking craft by a tight grasp on the bulwarks.
"That's it.

Now the oars.

Hurry up.

Here, you Hiram, grab that can and bail for all you're worth!" The fat youth seemed transformed by the sudden emergency into the most active of beings.
"What are you going to do ?" yelled Merritt, framing his mouth with his hands.
"Make a spray hood.

Come forward here and give me a hand." With the oars the two boys made a sort of arched framework, secured with ropes, and over it spread the canvas cockpit cover, lashing it down to the forward and side cleats.