Night had fallen and the cabin was plunged in darkness, but nobody came near them. There was an electric globe in the cabin, but when Jack tried to turn it on he found that the current had been cut off. From outside the door they could hear the buzz of voices, but were not able to distinguish words. Presumably Medway and Hemming were in consultation. But even though the boys tried their utmost to hear something, hoping that it might shed some light on their ultimate destiny, the complaining of the laboring ship and the low tone in which the men’s voices were pitched, prevented any eavesdropping.
And so the hours wore on, the prisoners from time to time communicating by tapping in the Morse code. This, in itself, made the dreary, dark hours more endurable for the boys. As it grew later it was evident by the frantic pitching of the yacht that a tremendous sea must be running outside.
From time to time they could hear the rush of heavy feet on the deck overhead and thought they could catch the sound of hoarse shouts.
“Gracious!” exclaimed Tom, after an unusually heavy lurch had sent him staggering across the cabin, “there must be a whopper of a storm outside.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Jack, “she’s pitching like a bucking bronco. Wow! Feel that!”
The Valkyrie appeared to climb heavenward, pause for a thrilling instant, and then rush down—down—down as if she would never stop.
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h!” groaned Dick in an agony of sea-sickness, “is she going to the bottom?”
“No danger of that,” responded Jack with a confidence he was far from feeling, “this old tub has been around the world before now, and an off-shore gale isn’t going to finish her.”
“Wo-o-f!” groaned Dick, “I wish it would. This is what I get for snoopin’ around where I have no business to be. Oh-o-o-o-o!”
All at once there came to them, above the uproar and confusion of the storm, the sound of the “telegraph” at work. Jack was alert in an instant.