I found the men trying to make soundings all about us as best they

could with boat hooks and a spare spar. But it came to little.

"Peterson," said I, "you're ship's master. What are your orders?"

"Unlash the boat covers," said he. "Get even the dingey ready.

Williams, close your hatch and bear a hand to swing the big boat out

in her davits. Set the bottom plugs in well. And Mr. Harry, you and

John, the Chink, had better get some stores and a case or so of

bottled water aboard the long boat. Have you got the slickers and rugs

ready, and plenty of clothes? We'll just be ready if it happens. I

don't know where that damned light or the damned channel is, but the

damned ducks maybe know where some damned thing is. We'll run for

them, if we can't ride her out."

We all hurried now, Jean Lafitte at my heels, silent and faithful as a

dog, aiding me as I piled blankets and coats and rugs from our cabin

into the ship's boat, which swayed and swung perilously at the davits.

What with the aid of John, the China boy, and Willy, the deck-hand, we

also got supplies aboard her, I scarce knew what, except that there

seemed abundance. And then we stood waiting for what might happen,

helpless in the hands of the offended elements, and silent all. I

held Jean's hand in my own. He was loyal to his mate, even now.

"Jimmy'd be here," he said. "'Course he would, only he's so awful

sick. I ain't sick--yet, but I feel funny, someway."

Peterson stood looking ahead, but was anxious. "She's coming up

stronger," said he, "and two points on the port quarter. We're going

on harder all the time. Anchor's dragging. Afraid we're going to lose

her, Mr. Harry."

"Hush!" said I, nodding to the boy. "And turn on the search-light. It

seems to me I hear breakers in there."

"That's so," said the old man. "Hook on the light's battery, Williams,

and let's see what we can see."

The strong beam, wavering from side to side, plowed a furry path into

the fog. It disclosed at first only the succession of angry incoming

waves, each, as it passed, thudding us down on the bar of shell and

mud and slime. But at last, off to starboard and well astern in our

new position, riding at anchor, we raised a faint white line of broken

water which seemed a constant feature; and now and then caught the low

boom of the surf.

"She ain't a half mile, over yonder," I heard Willy, the deck-hand,

say. "An' we could almost walk it if it wasn't for the sea."

"Yes, sir," said Williams, "we'd do fine in there now, with them

boats. When we hit that white water----"




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