Of course we had chummed up with Dr. Atherton, though we had never met him before. One's obliged to be friendly with every one on board, you know; and then he was the only one there was to be friendly with. He was acting as the ship's surgeon for the voyage home. He was going to practise in England. He was, perhaps, twenty-five—not more than twenty-six, at any rate, and on the strength of that he began to constitute himself a sort of second guardian over us.
We didn't object. He was very nice. And, indeed, he made the time pass very pleasantly for us.
Sylvia was sixteen, and I was fifteen; and the grey-haired captain was the kindest chaperon.
For the first fortnight we had the most delightful weather; and then it began to blow a horrid gale. The May Queen pitched frightfully, and "took in," as the sailors said, "a deal of water."
For three days the storm raged violently. We thought the ship would never weather it. I don't know what we should have done without Dr. Atherton. And then quite suddenly the wind died away, and there came a heavenly calm.
The sea was like a mill-pond. It was beautiful! Sylvia and I began to breathe again, when, all at once, we felt that ominous something in the air.
"Thud! thud! thud!" All day long we heard that curious sound—and at dead of night too, if we happened to be awake. "Thud! thud! thud!" unceasingly.
The sailors, too, forgot their jocular sayings, and seemed too busy now to notice us. Some looked flurried, some looked sullen; but all looked anxious, we thought. And they were working, working, always working away at the bottom of the ship. And always that "thud! thud! thud!"
And then we learned by accident what the matter was.
"Five feet of water in the well!" It was the captain's voice.