“Well—er—I don’t exactly know, but I assume that the hull was broken long since.”
“I don’t see why you should take that for granted. These very movements seem to me to argue buoyancy. Somehow, I feel far safer here than if I were—”
She was interrupted by the opening of the door, and the consequent roar of the gale. It was Walker, the engineer, a lank, swarthy man, with long black mustaches which drooped forlornly down the sides of his mouth. He shouted, with the inimitable accent of Tyneside:
“Yo’ wanted, Docto’ Chwistobal. The captain thinks Mr. Boyle is bettaw.”
“May I come, too?” asked Elsie.
“No, missie. You bide he-aw.”
“Please tell me before you go—is the ship full of water?”
“She’s dwy as a bone,” said Walker. A sea splashed over him and sent a shower into the cabin. “A vewy wet bone,” he added, with a broad grin, for the Northumbrian had a ready wit though he had such a solemn jowl, and he could not pronounce an “r” to save his life.
“Between you and the captain, I am beginning to be infected by belief,” said Christobal to Elsie. “Let me recommend you to close the door behind us.”
And she was left with the dog for company once more. A chronometer showed that the hour was past midnight. She knew sufficient of the sea to understand that the clock was probably accurate, as the course had practically followed the same meridian since the Kansas quitted Valparaiso. So the ship and those left on board had entered on another day! How little she had thought that to be possible when the awful knowledge first came to her that the Kansas was ashore! How long ago was that? Then she remembered that when Courtenay placed her in his cabin with the promise to bring Isobel to her, she had noticed the time—eleven o’clock. Was it conceivable that only one hour had elapsed since she and her four-footed friend were flung all of a heap into a corner by the impact of the vessel against the sand-bank? One hour! Surely there was some mistake; she puzzled over the problem, recounting each event since the conclusion of dinner, and finally convinced herself that her recollection was not at fault. An hour—one of eternity’s hours! A verse of the 90th Psalm came to her mind: