We did so, and followed him up the stairway. The rain and snow still came fast and thick. The deck was soppy. Hobbs was at the wheel. Donovan and Weymouth were forward. I could just make them out, standing wrapped up against the bulwarks.
"Now hark!" said the captain.
We all listened. A heavy noise, like that of some huge flouring-mill in full operation, could be plainly heard above the swash of the waves and the drive and patter of the storm.
"Thunder?—no, it isn't thunder," muttered Raed.
"Breakers!" exclaimed Kit. "It's the sea on the rocks,—those cliffs,—isn't it?"
"Trull," said the captain to that old worthy, who was just poking his head up out of the forecastle,—"Trull, is that noise the surf?"
The veteran turned an experienced ear aport, listened a moment, and then replied,—
"No, sir," promptly.
"Well, what in the world is it, then?"
The old salt listened again attentively. The steady rumble continued without intermission.