"Seven hundred and forty millimetres—a fall of twenty-two millimetres in eight hours," announced Andy, reading the figures from a slip of paper, on which he had noted the captain's reply.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. McKay. "That's equivalent to a trifle over 29.1 inches. We're in for something, especially with that deck cargo," as he pointed to the towering baulks of mahogany which were stowed amidships.
"Are they doing anything for'ard?" he continued.
"The men are placing additional lashings over the hatchways."
"Pity they didn't man the derrick and heave some of that stuff overboard," replied Mr. McKay, eyeing the timber with concern. "However, it will be dark in another quarter of an hour, so we had better turn in and get some sleep while we are able."
It was shortly after midnight when Ellerton awoke, conscious that something was amiss. He had slept through severe gales in the old Tophet when she was scudding under close-reefed canvas before the wind or lying hove-to in a hurricane in Magellan Straits; but there was something in the peculiar motion of the San Martin that roused his seaman's instincts.
It was blowing. He could hear the nerve-racking clank of the engines as the propeller raced in the air, and the corresponding jar as the ship's stern was engulfed in the following seas. That was a mere nothing; it was the excessive heel and slow recovery of the vessel which told him that things were not as they should be.
Hastily dressing, he was about to leave the cabin when a hollow groan caught his ear. It was pitch dark, for the electric lights had failed, and the after part of the ship was in a state of absolute blackness.
"What's up, Terence?"
Terence was like the sufferer on the Channel mail boat. He was past the stage when he was afraid he might die, and was entering into the stage when he was afraid he might not. Ellerton had suffered the agonies of sea-sickness before, so, knowing that the unhappy victim would prefer to suffer in solitude, he went outside.