The roaring of the reef was, in truth, a not all unpleasant sound to those who felt safe and snug in its lee, securely anchored. To be sure, there was a grim suggestion in the crashing of the swell against its hollows and angles at first, but the steady repetition of this became in time almost monotonous. There was the heavy, roaring, thudding sound, as the swell surged in against its firm base. Then this blended into a crisp rushing, as the waters raced along its sides; and then a crash as of shattered glass as the mass thrown up broke in mid-air and fell back in countless fragments of white, frothing water upon the cold rocks.
The boys went off to sleep with this ceaseless play of the waters in their ears.
The hours of the night passed one by one. And if any boy aboard the Viking roused up through their passing and heard the surf-play upon the reef, there was no more menace in it than before. Just the same steady hammering of water upon rock.
Yet Harvey’s prophecy of sound sleep was not wholly borne out—at least, in the case of Henry Burns. He was a good sleeper under ordinary conditions, but he roused up several times and listened to the wash of the seas.
“It may be grand music,” he muttered once, drowsily, “but I can’t say I like it quite so near.”
Something awoke him again an hour later. His perception of it as he half-sat up was that it sounded like something grating against the side of the Viking.
He sat still for a moment and listened. The sound was not repeated.
“I thought I heard something alongside,” he said aloud, but talking to himself. “Did you hear anything, Jack?” he inquired in a louder tone, as Harvey stirred uneasily.
There was no reply. Harvey had not wakened.
“Hm! guess I’ve got what my aunt calls the fidgets,” muttered Henry Burns, rolling up in his blanket once more. “It’s that confounded reef. No, it’s no use. I don’t like the sound of it at night. Pshaw! I’ll go to sleep, though, and forget it.”