When the two of them started for the wheelhouse to consult the charts and find where the present course was apt to bring us, I remembered those below.
Wet almost to the skin, I made my way into the cabin.
Thorpe met me eagerly.
He no longer looked the fop—a sort of terror gleamed in his eyes, for which he might easily be excused, since he was not much of a sailor, and the awful convulsions of the yacht were enough to arouse alarm in the bravest heart.
But I knew there was something of the true metal in his constitution, which would come to the surface, now that one he loved was placed in peril of her life.
“This is awful, Kenneth!” he exclaimed, as he seized hold of me. “Why, you’re as wet as a drowned rat! Have you been overboard, man?”
I hastened to assure him in the negative, and explained that the seas occasionally washed the deck, which would save my men the labor.
“What d’ye call this?” he demanded.
I said it was a little blow, possibly a norther, such as sweeps over the Gulf of Mexico at this season of the year.
“You mean a hurricane,” he insisted.