The cook, poor fellow, had disappeared, nor did I ever learn what became of him; perhaps he was one of those Robbins saw carried away.
I made my way to his galley, and seized upon such food as I could find amid the fearful confusion existing there.
The “fiddles” were on the table, those storm signals meant to keep the dishes from waltzing across the board and into one’s lap, and so I managed to keep the viands I fetched in something like order.
If we were destined to watch through the long and dreadful night, we might imbibe something of strength by satisfying the inner man, for I have long since discovered that danger loses one-half its terror if faced on a full stomach.
Another water-soaked sailor entered—one of the crew, whom I made at home and forced to partake of food and drink.
By degrees they all assembled, seven, counting Robbins, who came last.
There were five missing, including the cook and poor Karl Wagner.
I shuddered when I thought of their fate, thought of that maddening abyss of foamy waters; but why should I waste any pity on the poor fellows when long ere now they were at peace, while we must face the worst.
How the minutes dragged.
And each hour was an eternity.