“Catch him!” cried my father, sharply; but he meant not Mr. Fett.  His eyes were on Billy Priske, who, perched on the temporary platform, where almost without relief he had sat and steered us, shouting his orders without sign of fatigue, sank forward with the rudder ropes dragging through, his hands, and dropped into the hold.

For me, I cast myself down on deck with face upturned to the sun, and slept.

I woke to find my father seated close to me, cross-legged, examining a sextant.

“The plague of it is,” he grumbled, “that even supposing myself to have mastered this diabolical instrument, we have ne’er a compass on board.”

Glancing aft I saw that Mike Halliday had taken Billy’s place at the helm.  At my elbow lay Nat, still sleeping.  Mr. Badcock had crawled to the bulwarks, and leaned there in uncontrollable sea-sickness.  Until the gale was done I believe he had not felt a qualm.  Now, on the top of his nausea, he had to endure the raillery of Mr. Fett, whose active fancy had already invented a grotesque and wholly untruthful accusation against his friend—­namely, that when assailed by the Moors, and in the act of being kicked below, he had dropped on his knees and offered to turn Mohammedan.

That evening we committed old Worthyvale’s body to the sea, and my father, having taken his first observation at noon, carefully entered the latitude and longitude in his pocket-book.  On consulting the chart we found the alleged bearings somewhere south of Asia-Minor—­to be exact, off the coast of Pamphylia.  My father therefore added the word “approximately” to his entry, and waited for Captain Pomery to recover.

Though the sea went down even more quickly than it had arisen, the pumps kept us fairly busy.  All that night, under a clear and starry sky, we steered for the north-east with the wind brisk upon our starboard quarter.

     “I have no chart,
      No compass but a heart,”

quoted I in mischief to Nat.  But Nat, having passed through a real gale, had saved not sufficient fondness for his verse to blush, for it.  We should have been mournful for old Worthyvale, but that night we knew only that it was good, being young, to have escaped death.  Under the stars we made bad jokes on Mr. Badcock’s sea-sickness, and sang in chorus to Mr. Fett’s solos—­

        “With a fa-la, fa-la, fa-la-la! 
      To all you ladies now at land . . .”

Next morning Captain Pomery (whose hurt was a pretty severe concussion of the skull, the explosion having flung him into the panelling of the ship’s cabin, and against the knee of a beam) returned to duty, and professed himself able, with help, to take a reckoning.  He relieved us of another anxiety by producing a pocket-compass from his fob.

My father held the sextant for him, while Nat, under instructions, worked out the sum.  With a compass, upon a chart spread on the deck, I pricked out the bearings—­with a result that astonished all as I leapt up and stared across the bows.