He looked up toward the bridge, to see Captain Steerit standing there, clad in oilskins, for the spray was flying from the crests of the mountain-like ridges of water.
“Is there any danger?” Tom shouted back.
“There always is—in a storm,” was the grim response. “Get back. No telling when a comber may come aboard, and it will carry you off like a chip. You can’t hold on. Get back, Tom!”
Our hero decided that it was good advice to follow, and, even as he turned he felt the ship stagger as though some giant had dealt her a blow. There was a shower of spray and a rush of water that drenched Tom, and nearly carried him off his feet.
“Well I’m wet through,” he reflected. “I’d better get back to bed, or else put on dry clothes. I should have put on oilskins before coming up.”
As he went down a companionway he saw Mr. Blake coming up, with his wife clinging to him. She had been crying, and was even now sobbing.
“Don’t go up,” Tom advised them.
“Oh, is it as bad as that? Are we sinking?” gasped Mrs. Blake.
“Oh, there’s no particular danger,” said Tom, as calmly as he could, “only you’ll get all wet. I’m drenched. Captain Steerit warned me back, just as a big wave came aboard.”