“Trouble,” repeated Tom, “or else some one is frightened. The storm must have developed in a hurry. I’m going to see what’s up. I don’t like being below when there’s any danger.”
Finishing with his dressing, Tom hurried along the passageway leading to the upper deck. He had to steady himself as he went along, or he would have received more hard knocks.
Coming opposite the room where the “mysterious” man was quartered, Tom noted that the door was ajar a trifle. It went shut with a slam as our hero passed, but whether the occupant had been the cause, or the swaying of the ship, Tom could not determine.
“No chance to talk with Captain Steerit now,” Tom reflected. “But I guess it will keep until after the blow.”
On deck our hero was at once made aware of the fury of the storm, and its increasing violence. He had a glimpse of great billows, foam-capped, racing along at the side of the Silver Star, as if to keep pace with her, mocking her efforts to speed away from them. He heard the wind fairly howling through the wire stays, as if giant fingers were playing a wild tune on some immense harp. And he felt, too, the violent pitching and tossing of the craft, as he had not in his cabin below. In fact so great was the motion that he had difficulty in keeping his feet.
“Some blow—this,” gasped Tom, the words being almost snatched out of his mouth by the wind.
He saw sailors making their way here and there, fastening in place such gear as might tear away when the storm became worse. And that this was likely was becoming every moment more evident.
Tom managed to make his way forward, clinging to some safety ropes that had been rigged. He was near the bow, and could see towering billows curling toward the ship, when a voice hailed him.
“Get back! Go on back, Tom!” someone shouted.