“Ahoy wid y’u! I’ll teach y’u to scud y’r gang. I’ll take a reef in y’r jib, y’u blubberene!”

Shibusawa made no attempt to resist the attack, but consoled himself in the belief that there were others to be found in this strange civilisation that were less impolite. He tried to relish the food, though he could not bear its smell, much less its taste. It was different cooking from any he had ever eaten, and the seasoning—well, it was no worse than the ingredients, which he suspected to be mostly flesh of some kind or another.

“Can these strange people be cannibals? Yes, they must be, else whence did they obtain this greasy stuff?” queried he, as he thought of his own fate.

Shibusawa, however, had not started off entirely unprepared, but upon leaving home had thrust into the folds of his girdle a few handfuls of loose rice and a small skin of fresh water. Now that he was hungry for food that he could eat and water that he could drink he withdrew into a lonely corner and helped himself sparingly. In the matter of clothing he was more fortunate, for early upon his advent he had succeeded in bargaining for a pair of blue overalls and jumper, besides cowhide shoes and a sailor’s cap. For Okyo, he had as yet procured only a shirt and the shoes—the remainder being promised upon their arrival at Shanghai. Thus the day passed, though it was not later than four o’clock when it began suddenly to grow dark.

The air was becoming oppressive and the pressure rapidly dropping. Presently the ship’s men began hurrying here and there under enforced orders, and everywhere about there seemed a hushed, anxious feeling. The barometer now registered 27,077 and the captain took his place on the bridge. The stokers’ shovels rang from below with the rhythm of their merry “he-ho,” and the black clouds of smoke rolled aft in her wake. The boatswain’s hardy voice rose high above the rattling of cordage and the planking of hatchways. The half-hour bell solemnly tolled, and a pall-like stillness settled over all as the storm-centre lowered around them.

A hush, a whirl, a roar—and the suspense was over. The storm had burst, and the typhoon was on. The head-on bell sounded and the grimy funnels belched clouds of sparks, and the ponderous ship hurled a foaming surf and furrowed the angry sea like a demon waging a last defence. The fire flashed and the heavens roared and rumbled, while every man braced himself at his post. Sea after sea lashed and drove upon her decks. Her cabins creaked and her beams trembled. The breathless lurches, the awful plunges, the terrific pounding, all told of her mighty battle for life and of the uncertainty of man’s contention with the mad fury of the elements.

In the midst of the awful storm Shibusawa became deathly sick, and made a desperate effort to gain the upper deck. Several times he had been discovered and as often beaten back, but the want of fresh air and the uncertainty of his position each time impelled him to further effort. At last he succeeded in reaching the open hatchway, and watching his chance slipped by and clambered upon the open deck. Here the wind caught him up and hurled him along the slippery plank and headlong aft, where he lodged in a tangled mass of débris. A lone boatswain caught him from going overboard, and in the hurry and excitement lashed him to a life raft which had been swept up by the last wave. The hardy fellow had barely covered his own safety when another high sea caught the ship abaft her starboard bow and swept over her deck like a monstrous tidal wave.

“Man overboard!” cried the boatswain, as Shibusawa and his life raft disappeared behind the tumbling, heaving, jagged mountain, that rolled, and moaned, and foamed in the distance.

His voice was lost in the din of wind and rain that swept down from the bridge above.

“All under deck and make fast your hatchway!” shouted the captain, as the quartermaster tugged at the helm’s tangled gear.