“We have,” said Bastin, “and it is wonderfully steady. About 29 degrees or a little over, which it has been for the last three days.”
Again Astley laughed in a mirthless fashion, as he answered:
“Oh, that thing! That’s the passengers’ glass. I told the steward to put it out of gear so that you might not be frightened; it is an old trick. Look at this,” and he produced one of the portable variety out of his pocket.
We looked, and it stood somewhere between 27 degrees and 28 degrees.
“That’s the lowest glass I ever saw in the Polynesian or any other seas during thirty years. It’s right, too, for I have tested it by three others,” he said.
“What does it mean?” I asked rather anxiously.
“South Sea cyclone of the worst breed,” he replied. “That cursed Dane knew it was coming and that’s why he left the ship. Pray as you never prayed before,” and again he stretched out his hand towards the whisky bottle. But I stepped between him and it, shaking my head. Thereon he laughed for the third time and left the cabin. Though I saw him once or twice afterwards, these were really the last words of intelligible conversation that I ever had with Captain Astley.
“It seems that we are in some danger,” said Bastin, in an unmoved kind of way. “I think that was a good idea of the captain’s, to put up a petition, I mean, but as Bickley will scarcely care to join in it I will go into the cabin and do so myself.”
Bickley snorted, then said:
“Confound that captain! Why did he play such a trick upon us about the barometer? Humphrey, I believe he had been drinking.”