"I am sure Captain Marshall will do what is right," said Phil.
"Really?" sneered the mate. "I didn't ask you to put in your oar."
"I know you didn't—but my father owns the vessel, and I shall stand by Captain Marshall and by my friend, Dave Porter."
"Oh, so it's something of a plot against me, eh?" snorted the mate, more angry than ever. "Well, don't let it go too far." And he turned into his own room, banging the door after him. A minute later he came out, wearing his raincoat, and hurried out on deck once more.
"He's a real nice man, I don't think," was Roger's comment. "My, how he would lord it over us, if he dared!"
"He is certainly sore," said Phil. "I must say, in a way, he and the supercargo are a team. When I get a chance, I am going to write to father and let him know exactly the sort of fellows they are."
The boys felt little like discussing the subject further just then, for the storm had now burst over the vessel in all of its mad fury. The wind was whistling through the rigging, making the masts and yards creak and groan, and the rain came down in sheets, sweeping the decks by the bucketful. It was with difficulty that the Stormy Petrel could be kept before the wind. The waves were running like so many big hills, with the bark first on a crest and then down in a valley between. The sky was almost black, lit up occasionally by flashes of lightning that were blinding.
"We'll go to the bottom, sure!" groaned Roger, for at least the tenth time. "I'd rather be at Oak Hall any day than in such a storm as this." He was still seasick, but the storm made him forget the ailment for the time being; and what was true of the senator's son in this regard was likewise true of Phil.
"I think I'll take another look on deck," said Dave, as the bark gave a pitch that sent them all against a partition.
"Take care that you don't fall overboard," returned Phil.