The storm was now upon us, and, as Tony Dibble had reported, it was a heavy one. The sky was one mass of black, angry clouds, and the wind blew a perfect gale.
The schooner pitched and tossed to such a degree that I had great difficulty in reaching the forward deck, where I presently saw my sailor friend hard at work clearing away the remains of the boom of the mainmast, which had swung around and snapped off.
"Hello, there you are," he sang out. "I was afraid you had gone overboard again."
"Not if I can help it," I replied. "That is, unless it becomes necessary."
"The old man's a fool," went on Dibble. "He has no business to sit in the cabin when there's a storm on. We might all go to the bottom."
"Will we weather it, do you think?"
"We can try," replied the old sailor, as cheerfully as he could.
Meanwhile Captain Hannock was shouting at the top of his voice. But the wind was so great that little could be heard, excepting such expressions as would have been better unuttered. He was now thoroughly awake to the danger that threatened us, and did all in his power to make up for the time he had lost.
Guided by the mate, the sailors were already taking in what little sail was still spread. In the wind this was no easy matter, and some of it was torn to shreds.
"This storm will cost the captain a neat penny," said Dibble, after the work was done.