“We are going to have a storm, aren’t we; a violent storm soon?” demanded Mr. Skeel, when it was almost dark, and the wind was sighing more mournfully than before.
“I reckon so,” answered Abe calmly.
“Then can’t we do something more to make ourselves secure?”
“Nary a thing more,” spoke the old sailor. “We’ve done all we can.”
The face of the former professor was white, and he paced up and down that portion of the deck less exposed to the waves. He was a coward and he showed it.
The derelict dipped her half-buried bow farther under a wave. It broke, running well up on the deck, and breaking against the lashed lifeboat, sent a shower of spray aft.
“Oh, it’s raining! It’s raining!” cried Jackie. “If we only had umbrellas now, Tom.”
“We’ll need more than umbrellas before morning, I’m thinking,” murmured Joe.
All that could be done had been, and when the last remnant of daylight faded, earlier than usual because of the clouds, Tom took his little charge inside the shelter. They stretched out on the canvas bed, and Tom joined silently with the child, who said aloud his simple prayers, asking that they might all be looked after by the All-seeing Providence.
The derelict forged ahead through the waves, blown by the ever increasing wind. She rose sluggishly on the swell—all too sluggishly—for she was not buoyant enough to escape the breaking swells. But still, aft, it was comparatively dry.