I glanced at Leith as I spoke, and I fancied I detected a glint of amusement in the lustreless eyes that were turned in my direction.  Whether it was caused by my hastily constructed lie or by the girl’s inquiries I could not tell, but my dislike for the clumsy giant made me suspicious about his knowledge of the incident of the preceding evening, and I felt certain that he was smiling at my fib.

As if he wished to do something which would convince me of his ignorance of the happening, he hastily changed the subject.

“The captain thinks we are in for a spell of bad weather, Mr. Verslun,” he drawled; “are you of the same opinion?”

“If signs go for anything we are,” I replied.  “We are running into a zone of trouble.”

He walked away without further speech, and the two girls went below in response to a message from their father.  The Professor was slightly indisposed, and he demanded that his daughters remain with him in the cabin.  The selfishness of the scientist irritated Holman exceedingly, and he made bitter comments about him during the hour or two he kept me company.

“I never yet met one of those scientific gazaboos who didn’t think he was something more than mortal,” he growled.  “I try to keep on good terms with the old bone measurer, but his vanity nearly turns me sick.  Do you know what he told me yesterday?”

“What?” I asked, amused at the youngster’s annoyance.

“Said that he might mention my name in the report of the expedition that he would send to some old research society in the States.  When I didn’t show any signs of elation he got offended, so I guess I’m cut out of the history.”

He went grumbling down into the cabin, and I watched the ocean.  The barometer was low, and out of the west a pack of fat black clouds swarmed up from the horizon, stacking themselves one upon another till they resembled a huge pile of rounded boulders which a sudden puff of wind might bring toppling down upon us.  The faint scouting puffs of air—­“the devil’s breath” of the poetical Polynesians—­whined through the stays, but the small waves that tried to rise in expectation were clouted back by the heavy, oppressive atmosphere that ironed out the ocean till one’s imagination pictured it waiting for the word like a strained runner on his mark.

It burst at last.  Three violent blasts ripped over us like projectiles, and the “song of the dead men” was twanged upon the straining ropes. The Waif stopped for an instant, as if debating whether she would run or cower before the onslaught, then she dipped her nose into the mad lather that rose around her and plunged forward.  That jump seemed to be a challenge to the storm.  It burst upon us in all its fury, and the yacht became a tiny seesaw upon the murderous Himalayas that rose around us.