The night was getting dark, and the storm increased.

To add to the anxieties of the skipper his crew of boys, though showing no funk, began to grow green about the gills, and presently Warington found himself in command of an entirely sea-sick crew.

He was unable to leave the helm, and for over thirty-one hours he stood there, giving his orders in a cheerful voice to the groaning youngsters who were more than once driven to the ship's drenched and dripping side.
Fortunately Warington knew the coast well, for it was much too dark to see a chart, and so, despite the raging tempest, the 10-tonner fought her way through the waves while the sea broke continually over her side, drenching the shivering boys, who stuck to their posts, and every now and then shouted to each other with chattering teeth that it was "awful fun." As showing the resourcefulness of the crew, I may narrate another yachting story.

One Saturday, off Yarmouth, when the Baden-Powells were thinking of a race for which they were entered on the following Monday, a storm suddenly came on, which played such havoc with the rigging that the mast was snapped in two, and the whole racing kit went overboard.

With clenched teeth the youngsters set to work and, with many a long pull and a strong pull, got all the wreck on board.
Then with axes they slashed away at the wire-rigging, and set to work to rig up a jury-mast.