In semi-tropic Pacific weather the unexpected so seldom happens as to be a negligible quantity.  The Wolverine met with it on June 5th.  From some unaccountable source in that realm of the heaven-scouring trades came a heavy mist.  Possibly volcanic action, deranging by its electric and gaseous outpourings the normal course of the winds, had given birth to it.  Be that as it may, it swept down upon the cruiser, thickening as it approached, until presently it had spread a curtain between the warship and its charge.  The wind died.  Until after fall of night the Wolverine moved slowly, bellowing for the schooner, but got no reply.  Once they thought they heard a distant shout of response, but there was no repetition.

“Probably doesn’t carry any fog horn,” said Carter bitterly, voicing a general uneasiness.

“No log; compass crazy; without fog signal; I don’t like that craft.  Barnett ought to have been ordered to blow the damned thing up, as a peril to the high seas.”

“We’ll pick her up in the morning, surely,” said Forsythe.  “This can’t last for ever.”

Nor did it last long.  An hour before midnight a pounding shower fell, lashing the sea into phosphorescent whiteness.  It ceased, and with the growl of a leaping animal a squall furiously beset the ship.  Soon the great steel body was plunging and heaving in the billows.  It was a gloomy company about the wardroom table.  Upon each and all hung an oppression of spirit.  Captain Parkinson came from his cabin and went on deck.  Constitutionally he was a nervous and pessimistic man with a fixed belief in the conspiracy of events, banded for the undoing of him and his.  Blind or dubious conditions racked his soul, but real danger found him not only prepared, but even eager.  Now his face was a picture of foreboding.

“Parky looks as if Davy Jones was pulling on his string,” observed the flippant Ives to his neighbour.

“Worrying about the schooner.  Hope Billy Edwards saw or heard or felt that squall coming,” replied Forsythe, giving expression to the anxiety that all felt.

“He’s a good sailor man,” said Ives, “and that’s a staunch little schooner, by the way she handled herself.”

“Oh, it will be all right,” said Carter confidently.  “The wind’s moderating now.”

“But there’s no telling how far out of the course this may have blown him.”

Barnett came down, dripping.

“Anything new?” asked Dr. Trendon.

The navigating officer shook his head.

“Nothing.  But the captain’s in a state of mind,” he said.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The schooner.  Seems possessed with the notion that there’s something wrong with her.”

“Aren’t you feeling a little that way yourself?” said Forsythe.  “I am.  I’ll take a look around before I turn in.”

He left behind him a silent crowd.  His return was prompt and swift.