A sound as of a vast drum being beaten, a drum bigger and more sonorous than anything ever conceived of, suddenly filled the salon. The walls seemed to quiver. So great was the noise, so shattering, that all put their hands to their ears, as if their very eardrums were threatened. The boys and Mr. Temple who were alone, looked at each other in alarm.
The next moment the trawler, which until then had been riding on even keel, heeled far over, so far, indeed, that it seemed as if she could not right herself. Caught off guard the boys were tossed against the doors of their cabins and bruised badly by the impact. Then slowly, like a swimmer coming to the surface after a dive, the ship righted herself only to begin a tossing motion that was frightful.
“First the rain,” shouted Mr. Temple, who by clutching the table had maintained his equilibrium, “and now the wind. That’s all.”
The door of the companionway was thrust back
rudely, admitting a cascade of water that washed across the floor and the reeling form of Matt Murphy. His head hung low and there was that in his attitude which told Frank, the most sensitive of the boys, that he was in trouble. Frank sprang to his assistance.
“Good boy,” said Murphy, thickly. “Shut the door or the whole Pacific Ocean will be in here.”
Frank slammed the watertight door and then turned to Murphy. His companions also had gathered around. Murphy grasped the table with his left hand. The right arm hung useless.
“Me arm’s broke I guess,” he said. “Git that doctor out o’ the Big Boss’s room. Calls himself a doctor, anyhow.”
Frank hastened to pound on the door of “Black George’s” cabin. At first there was no answer. Then a weak voice began to curse, the sounds barely audible to Frank above the roar of the storm.
He was uncertain what to do and turned to appeal to Murphy. The latter, reeling and clutching the table, interpreted his action aright.