“I say, Lane,” he said, “is this the end of the world?”
“Not to-day, Mr Drew,” cried the mate: “Is no end to the world, it’s round.”
“To-day! It’s noon, and as black as night.”
“Mr Rimmer thinks we are going to have a tremendous rain storm now,” said Oliver Lane, wincing with pain as he sat down.
“Then it is going to be a rain of black ink.”
“Oh, no, sir, heavy thunderstorm and then the light will come. The clouds look almost solid.”
“But surely that cannot be thunder,” cried Oliver Lane, excitedly. “Hark!”
“No need to, sir,” said the mate, smiling. “It makes itself heard plainly enough. By George!”
He sprang from the table and hurried out on deck, for a roar like that of some terrific explosion close at hand was heard, and Lane and Panton followed, expecting to see the lurid light of a fire or the flash of lightning forerunning the next roar.
But all was blacker than ever, and the sailing lights and a ship’s lantern or two swung to and fro as the vessel rose and fell on the unquiet sea.