The sea behind them was white and angry, and upon it the "Nomad," crippled by her useless steering gear, bobbed about like an empty bottle. It was some time before her company recovered their wits sufficiently to take stock of what had happened. When they did, they could not refrain from laughing at the ridiculous appearance they all presented, Sam Hinckley most of all.
The only garment left him was half a pair of trousers. The force of the wave had torn off the rest. Moreover, in the tumblefication in the engine room, a big can of black grease had torn loose and Sam, in his struggles, had come in contact with it, plentifully bedaubing himself with the inky stuff.
"We look like a lot of drowned rats," laughed Nat.
"And I f-f-f-f-f-f-feel like one," sputtered out Ding-dong ruefully.
"Well, get below and into dry clothes," ordered Captain Akers, "and then brew some good hot coffee. In the meantime we'll see what damage has been done and then get into dry togs, too."
The damage, on examination, proved to be serious enough. The "Nomad's" boat had been torn off her davits and only a few splinters suspended by the "falls" remained to show that she had once hung there. A ventilator had also been smashed and a port light stove in.
"Thank goodness we've still got the portable boats," breathed Nat, "or we would be in a fix, indeed."
"That's so," agreed Captain Akers, "but as things are we must be thankful it isn't any worse. Any one of us might just as easily have had a limb broken as not."
"I guess the first thing to be done is to reeve a new tiller line," said Joe.
"Yes, indeed," agreed the captain. "We must be off our course now. Suppose you boys get to work at once at that, while Sam and I take stock of the engine room and get the pumps going. Sam says there is a foot of water in his domain."