“Where is Mr. Jukes?” demanded Jack suddenly.
“In his cabin, I guess. I haven’t seen him since this ocean tantrum broke out.”
“The—the rapid-fire gun you spoke about?” asked Jack.
The other looked at him in some confusion.
“Confound my habit of talking to myself,” he exclaimed. “Did you hear that?”
“I couldn’t help it,” apologised Jack. “Are we going to fight any one?”
“You must ask Mr. Jukes that,” answered the captain, non-committally. “It’s up to him to tell what he wants to. All I know is that there is one on board. Maybe he brought it along to shoot clay pigeons with. Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“Well,” he added, “I’ve got to get for’ard again. I guess our young ship-mate will do now. He had a nasty crack though. Both of you are lucky you’re not in Davy Jones’ locker.”
All through the rest of that tempestuous night Jack sat by his chum, dozing off at times and then waking with a start to hear the uproar of the hurricane as they struggled through it. The dawn showed a troubled sea, leaping at the yacht as though to engulf her. The wind almost flattened Jack against the deck house as, Raynor having sunk into a deep sleep after an interval of consciousness, the young wireless man set out to see what chance there was for breakfast.
The companionway to the dining saloon on the deck below was in the after part of the ship. As he was about to descend an unusually big wave lifted the Sea Gypsy dizzily skyward, and then rushed her downward. There was a heave and a crash from the stern and Jack saw the after deck load of coal vanish like a black avalanche, to be swallowed up in the maw of the sea.