"Well, sir, it's just this; it had been breezing up, and we double-reefed the mainsail, Captain Caudel not liking the look of the weather, when a slap of wind carried pretty nigh half the mast over the side. We reckon—for we can't see—that it's gone some three or four feet below the cross-trees. The sail came down with a run, and there was a regular mess of it, sir, the wessel being buried. We've had to keep her afore it until we could cut the wreckage clear, and now we're agoing to heave her to, and I'm to tell ye with Capt'n Caudel's compliments not to take any notice of the capers she may cut when she heads the sea."
"One moment. Is she sound in her hull?"
"Yes, sir."
"Heaven be praised! And how is the wind?"
"About nor'-nor'-east, sir."
"Then, of course, we've been running sou'-sou'-west, heading right into the open channel?"
He said yes.
"How does the weather look, Files?"
"Werry black and noisy, sir."
"Tell Caudel to let me see him whenever he can leave the deck," said I, unwilling to detain him lest he should say something to add to the terror of Grace, whose eyes were riveted upon him as though he were some frightful ghost or hideous messenger of death.