So they took in the tarpaulin and set the foretopmast-staysail again, and, with the best two helmsmen at the wheel, they sped before the tempest for four hours, during which there was no increase of the wind and no change in the barometer; it still remained at its lowest reading.
"Keep the wind as much on the port quarter as you dare," ordered Swarth. "We're simply sailing around the center, and perhaps in with the vortex."
They obeyed him as they could, and in a few hours more there was less fury in the blast and a slight rise in the barometer.
"I was right," said the captain. "The center will pass us now. We're out of its way."
They brought the brig around amid a crashing of seas over the port rail, and stowing the staysail, pinned her again on the port tack with the tarpaulin. But a few hours of it brought an increase of wind and a fall of the barometer.
"What in d—nation does it mean, Angel?" cried the captain, desperately. "By all laws of storms we ought to drift away from the center."
The mate could not tell; but a voice out of the night, barely distinguishable above the shrieking wind, answered him.
"You—all-fired—fool—don't—you—know—any—more—than—to—heave—to —in—the—Gulf—Stream?"
Then there was the faintest disturbance in the sounds of the sea, indicating the rushing by of a large craft.
"What!" roared Swarth. "The Gulf Stream? I've lost my reckoning. Where am I? Ship ahoy! Where am I?"