“That must wait too. The safety of the ship is all we can look to now.”
He made a dash for the weather-bulwark, and disappeared at once into the darkness and mist of spray which flew before the gale, hissing by us, and drenching us to the skin.
“You ought to have brought a waterproof, Mr Denning,” I said.
“Who could think of waterproofs at a time like this?” he said, with his lips to my ear. Then with a start, as he turned his head and looked forward—“What’s that?”
I had heard a cry as he spoke.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why, it must be some one wounded crying for help.”
“It is what Mr Brymer and I heard several times before,” said Mr Preddle excitedly. “He thought it must be one of the mutineers who had escaped aloft at first, afraid to stir to come down.”
“I don’t think it could be that,” I said. “It didn’t sound like being up aloft.”
“So he said. Then he thought—”
“There it is again,” cried Mr Denning and I heard, above the shrieking of the wind and the hissing spray, a despairing kind of wail, as if some one called for help.