Leaving the chart on the table, where it was secured by drawing-pins, Courtenay went back to his cabin to obtain a pair of sea-boots. Seeing Joey sitting on his tail and shivering, unable to indulge in a comfortable lick because the taste of salt water was hateful, he hunted for a padded mackintosh coat which he had procured for the dog’s protection in cold latitudes. He ransacked two lockers before he found it. Several articles were tumbled in a heap on the floor in his haste, and he did not trouble to pack them away again. He buckled Joey into the garment, fastened his own oilskins, and rejoined the second officer on the bridge. A glance showed him the dark wall of the mainsail rising abaft the after funnel. The quarter-master at the wheel, having recovered his wits, was keeping the ship’s nose up to the wind by a steady pressure to port. The gale was as fierce as ever. The second officer shouted in Courtenay’s ear:
“I am afraid, sir, the wind has shifted a point.”
Courtenay looked at the compass. The ship was bearing exactly northeast. He had hoped that the sails would enable her to shape due north, at least; unquestionably some spiteful fiend was urging her headlong to ruin. Had the wind but veered as much to the south, he might have chanced the run through Concepcion Strait, or even weathered Duke of York Island. He nodded to his junior, whose presence on the bridge was a mere matter of form, owing to the powerless condition of the ship and the impenetrable wrack of foam and mist that barred vision ahead, and strode off on a tour of inspection. As wind and sea were now beating more directly on the port side, there was some degree of shelter along the covered-in deck to starboard. He found that two boats had been cleared of their hamper and lowered on the davits until they could be swung in on the promenade deck. The men were thus able to provision them more easily than in their exposed berths on the spar deck. He watched the workers for a few minutes, showed them how to stow and lash some biscuit tins more securely, and continued his survey, meaning to look in on Walker and the doctor.
He had to pass the cabins set apart for the two girls. The ports were lighted, and through one window he could see some one peering out at him. Owing to the thickness of the glass and its blurred condition, he could not tell whether the occupant was Elsie or Isobel, or Isobel’s maid, but, whoever it was, a hand seemed to signal to him to open the door.
He unfastened the bolts, and held a half door slightly ajar. Joey, ever eager to be out of the pelting storm, hopped inside, and Courtenay heard Elsie exclaim:
“Good gracious, Joey! Where is your life-belt?”
“Do you want anything?” asked Courtenay, through the chink.
Elsie smiled at him. She was wrapped in a heavy ulster, and had a Tam o’ Shanter tied firmly on her head by a stout veil.
“Mr. Malcolm thought we had better bring life-belts from our cabins. I came for mine, and I looked out and saw you. I wanted to ask you what had become of Dr. Christobal. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Not in the least. I am just going to him. Would you care to come?”