“Why don’t we lay to till the storm subsides?” said Eugene, slapping his wet trowsers and holding up first one foot and then the other to let the water run out of his boots.
“The gale is over now,” said the officer of the deck; “but we can’t expect the sea to go down at once after such a stirring up as it had last night.”
Although the waves did not go down immediately, they subsided gradually, so that the men could be set to work to repair the damage done during the storm. At the end of a week the Stranger looked as good as new, and was ready for another and still more severe test of her strength, which came all too soon, and promised for the time being to bring the Club’s voyage to an abrupt ending.
CHAPTER III.
THE LAST OF LONG TOM.
For four weeks succeeding the gale the weather was delightful. Propelled by favoring breezes the Stranger sped rapidly on her way, stopping now and then at some point of interest long enough to allow the boys to stretch their cramped limbs on shore, a privilege of which they were always glad to avail themselves. Eugene found ample opportunity to try his new Henry rifle on the various species of birds and animals with which some of the islands abounded, and the others collected such a supply of curiosities, in the shape of weapons and ornaments, which they purchased from the natives, that the cabin of the Stranger soon began to look like a little museum. The Club’s absent friends, Chase and Wilson, were not forgotten. If one of their number found any curiosities of special value, such as bows and arrows, spears, headdresses, or cooking utensils, he always tried to procure more just like them to send to the two boys in Bellville. Everything passed off smoothly for four weeks, as we have said, and then the members of the Club, having made up their minds that they had seen enough of the islands of the Pacific, began to urge Uncle Dick to shape the schooner’s course toward Japan. On this same day Frank noticed, with some uneasiness, that the captain seemed to be very much interested in his barometer, so much so that he paid frequent visits to it; and every time he looked at it he would come out of his cabin and run his eye all around the horizon as if he were searching for something. But he said nothing, and neither did Frank until dinner was over, and Archie and George and the rest of the Club had ascended to the deck. Then he thought it time to make some inquiries, and the result was the conversation we have recorded at the beginning of our first chapter.
“A cyclone!” thought Frank, with a sinking at his heart such as he had frequently felt when threatened by some terrible danger. The very name had something appalling in it. There they were, surrounded by treacherous reefs which rendered navigation extremely difficult and dangerous, even under the most favorable circumstances, and Uncle Dick knew that there was a hurricane approaching, and still he allowed his vessel to run along with all her sails spread. Frank had read of shipmasters ordering in every stitch of canvas on the very first indication of an approaching storm, and wondered why Uncle Dick did not do the same.
The old sailor filled his pipe for his after-dinner smoke, and Frank went on deck to see how things looked there. Then he found that some precautions had already been taken to insure the safety of the schooner and her company. The islands, which clustered so thickly on all sides of them in the morning, were further away now, and were all lying astern. In front and on both sides of them nothing was to be seen but the sky and the blue water. Uncle Dick meant to have plenty of elbow-room.
The first thing that attracted Frank’s attention after he had noted the position of the islands, was the unusual gloom and silence that seemed to prevail everywhere. The men who were gathered about the capstan conversed in almost inaudible tones, the two mates seemed to be wholly absorbed in their own reflections and in watching the horizon; and even the voices of the merry group on the quarter-deck were tuned to a lower key. The wind whistled through the cordage as usual, the water bubbled up under the bows, the masts and yards creaked and groaned, but all these sounds were subdued—were uttered in a whisper, so to speak, as if the schooner and the element through which she was passing were depressed in the same degree and manner that Frank and the rest were. Away off to the eastward he now discovered a large ship, standing along with all her canvas spread that would catch the wind. Frank was glad to see her. During the fearful convulsion that was to follow he thought it would be a great comfort to know that he and his companions were not alone on the deep—that there were human beings near who might be able to extend a helping hand if they got into trouble. Somebody did get into trouble, and help was needed and freely and promptly given; but it was not to the Stranger or her crew.
“How far is it, Mr. Baldwin?” asked Frank.
“It is close at hand,” was the reply. “Half an hour will tell the story.”