At a dock near by the outline of a long steamer showed beneath the flare of a myriad gasoline torches, and across the water there came from her decks the clang of hammers and the hollow rumble of trucks pouring freight into her hold.
“The City of Nome, sir,” said a voice behind me, and turning I beheld the sturdy figure of Mr. Wilson, the second officer. “They’re rushing the job of preparing her for her first trip of the season. She follows the Wanderer up. She’ll be about forty-eight hours behind us.”
“Will she overtake us?”
“Hardly, sir. We’re as fast as she is, if not faster. No, we’ll show her the way into Bering Sea if nothing happens to check our speed.”
A sudden gust of wind shook us and a splattering of great rain-drops struck the deck. The mate turned toward the sea and sniffed the air.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, as if the wind had told him something. “I hope you’re a good sailor, Mr. Pitt; it may be a little rough outside tomorrow and for a couple of days to come.”
VII
I was awakened next morning by a sensation as of mighty blows being struck against the yacht’s hull, shaking it from stem to stem. My nostrils caught the tang of cold sea air, while gusts of fog-laden wind swept whistling past the open port-hole.
I dressed, went on deck, and swiftly retreated to shelter. The Wanderer was out at sea and boring her twelve-knot way through the smoke and welter of a raw Spring gale from the north.
The entire aspect of the yacht, of its personnel, and of the expedition seemed to have changed overnight. Captain Brack was upon the bridge. His neat, gold-braided uniform had vanished and he wore a rough sheepskin jacket and oilskin trousers. A shaggy cap was pulled down to his eyes and he chewed and spat tobacco.