As he reclosed the hatch his foot slipped on the wet grating, and his rubber-soled boot came in contact with a hard substance close to where the yacht binnacle stood.
"Good job I didn't sit on the compass, by Jove!" ejaculated the Sub. "But what's this? What idiot placed it there?"
For the object he had kicked was a large belaying pin that unaccountably had been propped up against the binnacle.
"I'll swear I didn't," declared Detroit.
"The mischief is done, at all events," continued Hamerton. "The attraction of that lump of iron has affected the compass. We may be points out of our course. Just watch."
Bringing the belaying pin back to its former position, Hamerton carefully observed its effect upon the sensitive needle of the liquid compass.
"Twelve degrees out, at least," exclaimed Detroit.
"And goodness only knows how long it has been like that. Perhaps before the yacht was hove-to perhaps even when we passed Norderney Gat."
"Well, we've a good offing, so there's little harm done. The wind is falling some, and if only this tarnation rain would quit——"
"What's that?" interrupted Hamerton, holding up his hand.