Soon came a whistling wind and then the rain fell in torrents. The sea was lashed into a white foam and the waves became higher and higher, crashing against the stern of the Mermaid, as she ran before them. At one moment the steam yacht would be on the top of the waves, the next she would sink down and down in the trough of the sea.
"You don't think we'll be wrecked, do you?" asked Sam, as he left his duty as fireman and came to the wheelhouse, where Dick stood, with all the windows down, trying to peer forth through the fury of the elements.
"Not at all, Sam,—but this is something fierce and no mistake."
"Poor Hans is down and out. I heard him rolling on his berth and groaning with distress."
"Well, leave him alone. He'll be sick as long as the storm lasts, most likely, and you'll only make matters worse by looking at him."
With the coming of night the storm appeared to increase. It was pitch-black on every side and Dick did not dare to run the Mermaid at more than quarter speed—just enough to keep her from swinging around broadside to the storm. All the lanterns were lit and hung up, Sam doing this with an oilsilk coat around him—a garment found in one of the staterooms. Yet he came in pretty wet.
"It's a screamer," he announced to Tom, as he dried himself by the boiler. "Never knew they could have such storms down here."
"They have storms all over the world," answered Tom. "What is Dick doing?"
"Running before the wind."
"He just told me to slow down more yet."