per in search of exits, that they might return to the assault in more overwhelming force. If they only would! Paul caught himself "rooting" for the wind and waves, inciting them to greater and greater violence. He was almost sure that years hence, when he was skipper of some fine ship, he would recall this occasion and say, "I mind one night aboard the old Clytemnestra"
By the time the first grey streaks of light were stealing into the dishevelled sky, the wind, although it would still have seemed hurricanic in other circumstances, had abated, and only the colossal seas were animated by the hope of smashing the toy man had sent to defy them. The captain had gone below, and Paul reluctantly followed to snatch a little sleep. In the musty corridors he had a different impression of the storm. The sides were trembling with each brutal attack, and the waves, sliding upwards, smothered the ports with a sickly gurgle. In his cabin, books and "gear" of all sorts had been flung to the floor and his canvas chair was upside down in a corner. With the fore and aft pitching, the lamp in its brass socket strove to turn somersaults. What if the captain had not appeared on deck during that talk with Otto—how long ago it seemed! Would the mate have seen the danger in time?
Paul shivered. The muffled uproar lost its glamour—it was rather like being buried alive—and he no longer desired the storm to do its worst. Water had forced its way into the cabin, soaking strips of carpet—and that meant extra work. He threw aside his drenched garments, towelled himself, and got into pyjamas—a cast-off suit of the old man's well reefed.
It had been the most exciting night of his life, and he was tired.
On and on. Until propitious northern "Trades" were encountered, the pencil in the chart-room recorded a sharp zigzag. Then, to a point near the equator, the
