"Yes, sir; and a worse day to follow."
"From the way the sea is rising, I'm afraid we cannot make Tamsui before it breaks."
"I am sure we cannot. I'll be satisfied if it only waits till daylight. We may have our hands full even with the light."
"I see that you have been making things snug. That's right. I'll have a look at everything before eight bells."
The captain went down to see that every preparation was made. McLeod spoke to his companion.
"You had better turn in, Sinclair," he said. "Get a bit of rest. You may be needed to-morrow. Good-night."
"Good-night, Mac."
* * * * *
How long he was in his berth, how much of that time he slept, how much was spent in more or less conscious efforts to keep from being thrown about his cabin, Sinclair did not know. Accustomed though he was to the sea and to storms, there came a time when he could remain in his berth no longer. The angle at which the ship lay over told him that she was still holding in her course of the night before. His cabin was still on the lee side. He opened his door and stepped out, grasping the hand-rail with all his might to keep from being hurled off his feet.
Such a sight met his eyes as is rarely seen even by the sailor who spends his life at sea. The Hailoong was heeled over so far that it seemed hardly possible that she could right herself. It appeared to be the force of the wind rather than of the waves which had thrown her on her beam ends, for she did not recover herself as she ought to have done between the assaults of the billows. Held in that position by sheer wind pressure, she was deluged with water, rain, spray, torn crests of waves—the air was full of them, while ever and anon some mountainous roller, higher than its fellows, swept across her decks in a smother of green water and snowy foam.