“Clean up for’ard,” the old man replied.  “Jammed under the fo’c’sle-head, but still breathing.  Both his arms are broken, he says, and he doesn’t know how many ribs.  He’s hurt bad.”

“Well, he’ll drown there the way she’s shipping water through the hawse-pipes.  Go for’ard!” Chris commanded, taking charge of things as a matter of course.  “Tell him not to worry; that I’m at the wheel.  Help him as much as you can, and make him help”—­he stopped and ran the spokes to starboard as a tremendous billow rose under the stern and yawed the schooner to port—­“and make him help himself for the rest.  Unship the fo’castle hatch and get him down into a bunk.  Then ship the hatch again.”

The captain turned his aged face forward and wavered pitifully.  The waist of the ship was full of water to the bulwarks.  He had just come through it, and knew death lurked every inch of the way.

“Go!” Chris shouted, fiercely.  And as the fear-stricken man started, “And take another look for the cook!”

Two hours later, almost dead from suffering, the captain returned.  He had obeyed orders.  The sailing-master was helpless, although safe in a bunk; the cook was gone.  Chris sent the captain below to the cabin to change his clothes.

After interminable hours of toil, day broke cold and gray.  Chris looked about him.  The Sophie Sutherland was racing before the typhoon like a thing possessed.  There was no rain, but the wind whipped the spray of the sea mast-high, obscuring everything except in the immediate neighborhood.

Two waves only could Chris see at a time—­the one before and the one behind.  So small and insignificant the schooner seemed on the long Pacific roll!  Rushing up a maddening mountain, she would poise like a cockle-shell on the giddy summit, breathless and rolling, leap outward and down into the yawning chasm beneath, and bury herself in the smother of foam at the bottom.  Then the recovery, another mountain, another sickening upward rush, another poise, and the downward crash.  Abreast of him, to starboard, like a ghost of the storm, Chris saw the cook dashing apace with the schooner.  Evidently, when washed overboard, he had grasped and become entangled in a trailing halyard.

For three hours more, alone with this gruesome companion, Chris held the Sophie Sutherland before the wind and sea.  He had long since forgotten his mangled fingers.  The bandages had been torn away, and the cold, salt spray had eaten into the half-healed wounds until they were numb and no longer pained.  But he was not cold.  The terrific labor of steering forced the perspiration from every pore.  Yet he was faint and weak with hunger and exhaustion, and hailed with delight the advent on deck of the captain, who fed him all of a pound of cake-chocolate.  It strengthened him at once.

He ordered the captain to cut the halyard by which the cook’s body was towing, and also to go forward and cut loose the jib-halyard and sheet.  When he had done so, the jib fluttered a couple of moments like a handkerchief, then tore out of the bolt-ropes and vanished.  The Sophie Sutherland was running under bare poles.