"It is blowing three gales in one as it is," said Mr. Quail. "The water comes waist-high in the lee-scuppers, and washes right chock aft to the taffrail."
The Hermione was tearing through the sea upon the wind, so she rolled little, but the wild waves came pouring over her catheads and topgallant forecastle, and over the weather bulwarks, swashing and plashing their snowy spray far above the level of her main-courser.
"Who is at the wheel?" asked the captain, who was standing at the break of the quarter-deck.
"Badger, the long Yankee," replied Mr. Quail.
"All seems quiet among these rascals forward; and they worked cheerily enough to-night."
"All quiet as yet, sir; but we don't know when their little game may begin."
"If they should have changed their minds?" suggested Phillips.
"No chance of that, sir," said Quail, shaking his head.
"Or, if the doctor was mistaken?"
"Impossible, sir," said Quail, shaking his head again—it was under a cloud of spray this time; "and, even if he was so, we can't mistake the disappearance of poor Manfredi after Sharkey's ugly threats, and their mutinous spirit in general. As first mate, I have seen enough of it to last my time at sea."