Before eleven, a third reef was taken in the mainsail; and Johnson filled the cabin with a storm-sail of No. 1 duck and sat cross-legged on the streaming floor, vigorously putting it to rights with a couple of the hands.  By dinner I had fled the deck, and sat in the bench corner, giddy, dumb, and stupefied with terror.  The frightened leaps of the poor Norah Creina, spanking like a stag for bare existence, bruised me between the table and the berths.  Overhead, the wild huntsman of the storm passed continuously in one blare of mingled noises; screaming wind, straining timber, lashing rope’s end, pounding block and bursting sea contributed; and I could have thought there was at times another, a more piercing, a more human note, that dominated all, like the wailing of an angel; I could have thought I knew the angel’s name, and that his wings were black.  It seemed incredible that any creature of man’s art could long endure the barbarous mishandling of the seas, kicked as the schooner was from mountain side to mountain side, beaten and blown upon and wrenched in every joint and sinew, like a child upon the rack.  There was not a plank of her that did not cry aloud for mercy; and as she continued to hold together, I became conscious of a growing sympathy with her endeavours, a growing admiration for her gallant staunchness, that amused and at times obliterated my terrors for myself.  God bless every man that swung a mallet on that tiny and strong hull!  It was not for wages only that he laboured, but to save men’s lives.

All the rest of the day, and all the following night, I sat in the corner or lay wakeful in my bunk; and it was only with the return of morning that a new phase of my alarms drove me once more on deck.  A gloomier interval I never passed.  Johnson and Nares steadily relieved each other at the wheel and came below.  The first glance of each was at the glass, which he repeatedly knuckled and frowned upon; for it was sagging lower all the time.  Then, if Johnson were the visitor, he would pick a snack out of the cupboard, and stand, braced against the table, eating it, and perhaps obliging me with a word or two of his hee-haw conversation:  how it was “a son of a gun of a cold night on deck, Mr. Dodd” (with a grin); how “it wasn’t no night for panjammers, he could tell me”:  having transacted all which, he would throw himself down in his bunk and sleep his two hours with compunction.  But the captain neither ate nor slept.  “You there, Mr. Dodd?” he would say, after the obligatory visit to the glass.  “Well, my son, we’re one hundred and four miles” (or whatever it was) “off the island, and scudding for all we’re worth.  We’ll make it to-morrow about four, or not, as the case may be.  That’s the news.  And now, Mr. Dodd, I’ve stretched a point for you; you can see I’m dead tired; so just you stretch away back to your bunk again.”  And with this attempt at geniality, his teeth would settle hard down on his cigar, and he would pass his