“Little good it will do him,” grumbled Kennedy. “We’ll be far enough from the Arion by night.”
He hurried away to impart his all but miraculous knowledge of the coming storm to the captain.
The sea was still calm, though here and there, racing away with the speed of the wind, like hurried messengers, dark ripples sped across its surface. It was then that the Unwilling Guest left his stateroom for the first time.
Perhaps he was so well accustomed to sea travel that he could guess that their course had been altered. However that may be, he went at once to the bridge. There, after studying the instruments for a moment, he turned an angry face toward the stocky skipper.
“What sort of course is this for New York,” he stormed. “You are not headed for New York.”
“Maybe not,” said the skipper, unperturbed. “Storm’s coming. We were due for the center of it. We’re running.”
“Running! And not a ripple!” The magnate’s voice was full of scorn.
As for the sturdy captain, he knew the sea. The scorn of the millionaire meant nothing to him. Quite unperturbed, he paced the deck and watched the roll of the storm clouds that mounted higher and higher along the horizon.
At the bottom of the companionway the capitalist found Kennedy sitting placidly looking away at the sea. Like Captain Jorgensen, he had lived long. One storm more or less did not matter.
True to Kennedy’s prophesy, the rich man sat down beside him and began to talk. Who can face a storm without a companion?