"Tanks chock-a-block. Gonzague had them filled from the water-boat this morning. Did you get your money?"
"Every pound of it. Wrenmarsh took me to the bank and identified me, and was mighty nice about the whole thing. Provisions are O.K. Off we go. Call the watch."
"Yes, but see my ring first," Tab said, holding it out.
In half an hour the Merle was changing her berth to the westward.
Chapter Sixteen STORM!
A gray sea, a gray sky, and the Mid-Atlantic Ocean in September. Over the heaving waters the Merle, under reduced canvas, was staggering westward on the port-tack with a stiff southerly breeze. Jack, clad in his yellow oil-skins like the rest of the hands, was standing just outside the cockpit on the windward side of the yacht. Jerry was asleep below. Having had the early morning watch, he had turned in directly after breakfast. The captain glanced aloft uneasily, and wondered if they were going to encounter on their return such a gale as they had weathered while going over. He reluctantly admitted to himself that there was every appearance of dirty weather, and thought he had better step below to take a look at the glass.
He pushed back the companion, and descended. The cabin was stuffy and no warmer than the air without. The racks were on the table, and the lamps swung in erratic circles in their gimbals. The barometer, a beautifully finished instrument of the columnar type, was placed against the after-bulkhead of the saloon on the starboard beside a closet door, its slender length enclosed in bronze. It gyrated wildly, in unison with the Thom's list-indicator above it. Jack steadied the tube with his hand, and looked anxiously to see if the mercury had fallen.