Tom, who had last been relieved at seven o’clock, in order that he might go below for supper, kept at the wheel alone, until eleven o’clock. Then, catching sight of the steward’s head through the doorway of the motor room, he shouted the order to call Joe Dawson on deck.
Joe came with the promptness of a fireman responding to an alarm. He took a look about him at the weather, then faced his chum.
“Between Marquesas and Tortugas?” he asked.
“Yes. Look!”
At just that moment the red eye of the revolving light over on Dry Tortugas, some miles away, swung around toward them.
“I’m glad the gale has held off so long,” muttered Joe. “This is the nastiest part of the way. Half an hour more, if a squall doesn’t strike us, and we’ll be where we’ll feel easier.”
“It’s queer weather, anyway,” said Skipper Tom musingly. “I figured we’d be in the thick of a souther by eight o’clock.”
“Maybe the storm has spent itself south of us,” ventured Joe Dawson, but Halstead shook his head.
“No; it’s going to catch us. No doubt about that. Hullo! Feel that?”