the old man, the helmsman, and the officer on duty, Paul for once ventured to ascend the steps. The captain stood beside the binnacles, his grim, vigilant, bearded face revealed in the glow of the lamps. Belatedly Paul's sense of duty revived and he dived into the companion-way to fetch the old man's oilskins and seaboots. These were donned without a word of acknowledgment, but Paul knew that his thoughtfulness was appreciated, and accepting the abnormal circumstances as a special license remained at the break of the poop, clinging to the rail and bracing himself against the blast. The old man had altered the course, letting the ship drive before the storm.
A crackle of lightning, as bright as though it had been touched off by a photographer, revealed the denuded outline of the vessel, making her seem as grotesquely tiny as she had, in the dark, seemed gigantically big. With only the topsails and staysails set, floundering in foam-tipped seas of greenish putty she reminded Paul of a little ship in a bottle, like the model Otto was making for him. Before he could account for this discrepancy there came a grinding, splintering, exploding crash, as though all heaven had been riven asunder. He crouched in the belief that a mast had given way and would come down with its trappings of wood and steel to annihilate him. Impossible that mere thunder could be so close, so ear-splitting and heart-shaking! He waited with tense muscles for the next flash, and rejoiced in the deluge that swept across the decks and drenched him to the skin.
Until dawn he maintained his position on the poop, absorbed in the ruthless spectacle, exultantly aware of his puniness, glorying in the thought that, with a slightly increased concentration of wrath, the elements might engulf him in one swirl of wreckage. Tons of water tossed themselves on the deck below and, failing to stave in the tarpaulined hatches, seethed from scupper to scup-
