he mate, gruffly, "and--"

"What's that?" cried Panton, holding up his hand.

"Thunder," said the mate, as a deep, apparently distant concussion was
heard.

"No, the explosion from some crater," said Panton. "Hark!"

Another deep muttering report was heard, and soon after another and
another.

"Only a bad thunderstorm," cried the mate. "There, let's go and get
some food, gentlemen, and see how our friends are. I daresay we shall
be having a deluge of rain before long, and then the sun will come out
and I can take an observation."

He led the way to the cabin, where the steward had prepared a meal and
retrimmed the lamps, going about with a scared look on his countenance,
and turning his eyes appealingly from one to the other as the
thunderlike reports kept on; but, getting no sympathy from those to whom
he appealed silently, for they were as nervous as himself, he sought his
opportunity and, following Oliver Lane into a corner, he began,--

"Oh, sir, the destruction's awful."

"But the ship is sound yet, and making no water."

"I mean my china and glass, sir," said the man, "I shan't have a whole
thing left."

"Never mind that if our lives are saved."

"No, sir, I don't; but will they be saved?"

"Oh, yes, I hope so."

"But it's so dark, sir. Oh, why did I leave London with its safety and
its gas? Why am I here, sir? I want to know why I am here?"

"Because you were not a coward," said Lane.

"Eh? You're not joking me, sir."

"No, I am serious."

"Then thank you, sir. You're quite right. That's it, I'm not a coward,
and I won't say another word."

The man nodded and smiled and went about his work, while Lane turned to
a young man of seven or eight and twenty, who sat evidently suffering
and looking pale and strange in the sickly light.

"I say, Lane," he said, "is this the end of the world?"

"Not to-day, Mr Drew," cried the mate: "Is no end to the world, it's
round."

"To-day! It's noon, and as black as night."

"Mr Rimmer thinks we are going to have a tremendous rain storm now,"
said Oliver Lane, wincing with pain as he sat down.

"Then it is going to be a rain of black ink."

"Oh, no, sir, heavy thunderstorm and then the light will come. The
clouds look almost solid."

"But surely that cannot be thunder," cried Oliver Lane, excitedly.
"Hark!"

"No need to, sir," said the mate, smiling. "It makes itself heard
plainly enough. By George!"

He sprang from the table and hu