"I have seen as bad; perhaps worse: but not often."
"Do you think that we're near Tamsui?"
"We must be."
"Can we make the harbour?"
"Not this time. We'll be late for the tide."
"A bad wind for putting about and getting out to sea again!"
"'Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand?'"
At that instant a tremendous billow tumbled on board with such a weight of water that for some moments it seemed as if the Hailoong could not rise from beneath it. It caught two Chinese deck-hands, tore them from the bridge supports to which they were clinging, and swept them helplessly from starboard to port. Like a flash MacKay's left hand shot out, grasped a thin brown wrist, and swung one of the natives into the shelter of the cabin. But the other was dashed with terrific force against the deck-rail, where he lay motionless.
Sinclair sprang forward to help him. A second wave hurled him against the rail. He did not fall, but performed some weird gymnastics in the effort to keep his feet. And through the shrieking of the wind and the roar of the waves he heard a clear, joyous woman's laugh, the same as he had heard the night before. There in the shelter of the cabin, on almost the very spot where he had stood a moment before, was Miss MacAllister, looking like the very spirit of the storm.
That was too much. Even Sinclair's usually unruffled temper began to give way. He caught up the helpless Chinese as if he had been a child, and with one quick spring was back to shelter.