The captain's head appeared again,
"We must close-reef!" said he.
The last reef was taken in; the storm came down and lashed the sea; the sky grew more and more threatening; the waves dashed over the deck at each plunge of the old bark in the sea. The old vessel, which had carried her captain for a generation, lay heavily on the water—Tönnes thought too heavily.
The second mate—the same who had played the accordion at the inn—came over to Tönnes.
"It was wrong to stow the china-clay at the bottom and the casks on top; she lies horribly dead, and I'm afraid we shall have to use the pumps."
"Yes, I said so to the old man, but he would have it that way," answered Tönnes. "We shall have a wet night."
"We shall, surely," said the second mate.
Tönnes crawled up to the helm and looked at the compass. Two men were at the helm—lashed fast. Tönnes looked up into the rigging and out to windward; then suddenly he cried, with the full force of his lungs:—
"Look out for breakers!"
Tönnes himself helped at the wheel; but the vessel only half answered the helm. The greater portion of the sea struck the bow, the quarter, and the bulwarks and stanchions amidship, so that they creaked and groaned. One of the men at the helm had grasped Tönnes, who would otherwise have been swept into the lee scupper. When the ship had righted from the terrible blow, the captain stood on the deck in his oilcloth suit.