"I was on a barkentine, trading between New York and Brazil once, when we got hit by a twister," said a machinist's mate.
"Do any harm?"
"Not much. Stripped her clean, washed seven sailors overboard and a few other trifles."
"Do you mean it washed a few other trifles overboard?" questioned Hickey.
"No; I don't mean anything of the sort. I mean that it cut up a few other capers. We were picked up by a coasting steamer three days later, half drowned."
"Any danger of her coming our way?" asked Sam a little apprehensively.
"I guess not. The officers will look out for that."
The officers on the bridge were looking after the waterspout, and very carefully at that. An extra watch was posted in each of the military tops, with instructions to keep a keen lookout. Hickey was one of these. His station was on top of the forward cage mast, a hundred feet from the deck.
The red-haired boy's head swam as he clung desperately to the rope ladder in his perilous ascent. Now and then the battleship would heel over until it seemed as if she never would come back.
When half way up he paused a few seconds, to turn his head aft and get a free breath, for water was smiting him at every step. He saw a signal wig-wagged to him from the after mast. It was from Dan Davis, who was going up on the same duty.