"Ay, a hell-beacon!" growled the captain, as he passed into the cabin.
What business had he in the cabin at such a moment, when his ship was going down into the dark waters!
Rum!
He would drink, drink, drink, drowning the dragon of conscience which, in this dread moment, seemed gnawing at his very vitals.
Up to his waist in water, he found the swimming chests containing his grog, and breaking it open, poured the fiery contents of one of the bottles down his throat.
The next moment he felt a rope drawing tightly round his breast beneath the armpits, became aware then of being hauled up through the companionway, while the voice of old Tom Turk rang in his ears:
"Hold there, Cap! Blast me, sir, but this ain't a square above-board bizness, do you see—a drinkin' of grog when there's peril! How do you know, but some of t'others aboard would like a few tauts, when opportunity drifts to em."
The captain would have responded the minute he was hauled up, with a blow of the fist, or at least an oath but for the terrible catastrophe which now seemed impending.
Humming, gurgling and roaring, a strange noise, growing louder every moment, was heard in the hold.