penetrate for hundreds of miles. "It is off to the westward. There
is something big making off there somewhere--a hurricane or something.
We're lucky to be so far to the eastward. But this is only a little
blow," he added. "It can't last. I can tell you that much."

By daylight the gale had eased down to normal. But daylight revealed
a new danger. It had come on thick. The sea was covered by a fog, or,
rather, by a pearly mist that was fog-like in density, in so far as it
obstructed vision, but that was no more than a film on the sea, for the
sun shot it through and filled it with a glowing radiance.

The deck of the Pyrenees was making more smoke than on the preceding
day, and the cheerfulness of officers and crew had vanished. In the lee
of the galley the cabin boy could be heard whimpering. It was his first
voyage, and the fear of death was at his heart. The captain wandered
about like a lost soul, nervously chewing his mustache, scowling, unable
to make up his mind what to do.

"What do you think?" he asked, pausing by the side of McCoy, who was
making a breakfast off fried bananas and a mug of water.

McCoy finished the last banana, drained the mug, and looked slowly
around. In his eyes was a smile of tenderness as he said:

"Well, Captain, we might as well drive as burn. Your decks are not going
to hold out forever. They are hotter this morning. You haven't a pair of
shoes I can wear? It is getting uncomfortable for my bare feet."

The Pyrenees shipped two heavy seas as she was swung off and put once
more before it, and the first mate expressed a desire to have all that
water down in the hold, if only it could be introduced without taking
off the hatches. McCoy ducked his head into the binnacle and watched the
course set.

"I'd hold her up some more, Captain," he said. "She's been making drift
when hove to."

"I've set it to a point higher already," was the answer. "Isn't that
enough?"

"I'd make it two points, Captain. This bit of a blow kicked that
westerly current ahead faster than you imagine."

Captain Davenport compromised on a point and a half, and then went
aloft, accompanied by McCoy and the first mate, to keep a lookout for
land. Sail had been made, so that the Pyrenees was doing ten knots. The
following sea was dying down rapidly. There was no break in the pearly
fog, and by ten o'clock Captain Davenport was growing nervous. All hands
were at their stations, ready, at the first warning of lan