“Some motion here!” thought Tom.
At the same time he became aware of a rushing of feet on the deck above him, while hoarse commands were cried out, coming but faintly to his ears.
Without waiting to dress, Tom cautiously opened his porthole a trifle. In an instant, even through the small crack, he was drenched with a spray of salty water.
“Say! It must be a blow!” he cried, screwing the porthole glass back into place. “It’s a storm all right! I’m going to get dressed, and go on deck. No telling what might happen.”
Steadying himself with one hand, he sorted out his clothes with the other. He could hear the passengers in the stateroom adjoining his moving about, and he thought he detected a woman crying.
[CHAPTER VIII]
A BLOW IN THE DARK
“Trouble somewhere,” reflected Tom, as he hastily dressed as best he could in that small stateroom, which seemed uncertain on its own part as to what was the floor or ceiling. Sometimes one of the walls would serve as the floor, and again as the ceiling.