Andy put the question.
"No, señor; there is plenty of sea room."
That was enough. The apprentice cared not what course he steered, so long as he kept the waves well on the quarter. When the hurricane was over they could carry on till they fell in with some passing vessel and got a tow into port.
"That's right. Tell him to take his watch below," continued the apprentice. "And you might get hold of some oilskins, Andy."
Obediently the skipper left the bridge, and, steeling himself for a long trick at the helm, Ellerton grasped the spokes of the wheel with firm hands.
At length the day broke, and with it a regular deluge of rain, pouring from an unbroken mass of scudding, deep blue clouds. The rain beat down the vicious crests, but the sea still ran "mountains high."
About noon Mr. McKay expressed his intention of joining Ellerton on the bridge, and assisted by his son he left the shelter of the poop.
From the foot of the poop-ladder to that of the bridge a life-line had been rigged to give the protection that the shattered bulwarks no longer afforded.
When midway between the two ladders, a roll of the vessel caused Mr. McKay to lurch heavily towards the rope. His wounded limb proved unequal to the strain, and falling heavily upon the main rope his weight broke the lashings that held it to the ring-bolt. Before Andy could save him, Mr. McKay had crashed against the main hatchway.
"Hurt?" asked Andy anxiously.