After the course was changed and the Sirdar bore away towards the south-west, the commander consulted the barometer each half-hour.  The tell-tale mercury had sunk over two inches in twelve hours.  The abnormally low pressure quickly created dense clouds which enhanced the melancholy darkness of the gale.

For many minutes together the bows of the ship were not visible.  Masthead and sidelights were obscured by the pelting scud.  The engines thrust the vessel forward like a lance into the vitals of the storm.  Wind and wave gushed out of the vortex with impotent fury.

At last, soon after midnight, the barometer showed a slight upward movement.  At 1.30 a.m. the change became pronounced; simultaneously the wind swung round a point to the westward.

Then Captain Ross smiled wearily.  His face brightened.  He opened his oilskin coat, glanced at the compass, and nodded approval.

“That’s right,” he shouted to the quartermaster at the steam-wheel.  “Keep her steady there, south 15 west.”

“South 15 west it is, sir,” yelled the sailor, impassively watching the moving disk, for the wind alteration necessitated a little less help from the rudder to keep the ship’s head true to her course.

Captain Ross ate some sandwiches and washed them down with cold tea.  He was more hungry than he imagined, having spent eleven hours without food.  The tea was insipid.  He called through a speaking-tube for a further supply of sandwiches and some coffee.

Then he turned to consult a chart.  He was joined by the chief officer.  Both men examined the chart in silence.

Captain Ross finally took a pencil.  He stabbed its point on the paper in the neighborhood of 14 deg.  N. and 112 deg.  E.

“We are about there, I think.”

The chief agreed.  “That was the locality I had in my mind.”  He bent closer over the sheet.

“Nothing in the way tonight, sir,” he added.

“Nothing whatever.  It is a bit of good luck to meet such weather here.  We can keep as far south as we like until daybreak, and by that time—­How did it look when you came in?”

“A trifle better, I think.”

“I have sent for some refreshments.  Let us have another dekko[Footnote:  Hindustani for “look”—­word much used by sailors in the East.] before we tackle them.”

The two officers passed out into the hurricane.  Instantly the wind endeavored to tear the charthouse from off the deck.  They looked aloft and ahead.  The officer on duty saw them and nodded silent comprehension.  It was useless to attempt to speak.  The weather was perceptibly clearer.

Then all three peered ahead again.  They stood, pressing against the wind, seeking to penetrate the murkiness in front.  Suddenly they were galvanized into strenuous activity.

A wild howl came from the lookout forward.  The eyes of the three men glared at a huge dismasted Chinese junk, wallowing helplessly in the trough of the sea, dead under the bows.