“How does it strike you?” asked Dan.

“It’s gained only six inches in the past hour.  I will say that much.  But if you ask me my honest opinion, I’d say this rotten old pleasure hull is a-gettin’ ready to open up and spread out like a—­like a—­balloon with the epizooetic.”

“All right, when she begins, come on up with your men without asking leave.  Report every half-hour.  I’ll be on the bridge, of course.  If I can pick up a steamship I’ll call her and desert ship; if not—­well, we’re somewhere outside the Winter Quarter light-ship.  I’ll need about five hours of the speed we’re making to pick up the light vessel and beach the yacht in the lee of Assateague; maybe not quite five hours, I can’t say exactly.”

“I think we can keep ahead of the water we’re makin’ that long,” replied Arthur, cheerfully.

As Dan regained the bridge, the bad news he had received below was slightly compensated for by the fact that the storm seemed to be taking a new kink, swirling away to sea.  The gray combers, however, were still disagreeably to be reckoned with.  The second officer had by this time pulled himself together, and as he reported to Dan, the young Captain was happy to feel that he had at least a lieutenant who could be counted on.  Now if Mulhatton were only with him—­but “Mul” was below, flat on his back, suffering technically from submersion, and so were the other men of the Fledgling who had been pulled aboard the yacht.

At ten o’clock Arthur reported that the water had gained another six inches.

As Dan snapped back the tube a burst of laughter from the saloon reached his ears.  Seasickness, fear, everything evil had been forgotten in the spirit of confidence and assurance of ultimate safety which Dan’s skill and personality had infused throughout the wallowing craft.  He shrugged his shoulders, staring vacantly into the angry sea.

At length his eyes turned to the distress signals he had ordered hoisted; and suddenly the gulf between his lot in life and theirs, which the merriment suggested, disappeared, and his emotions thereby aroused,—­emotions not untinged with self-pity, changed to deepest sympathy for those light-hearted ones who might soon be plunged into that gloom which heralds death.  Grim, silent, he turned to his work, determined that so far as in him lay no shadow of death should invest a single one of those persons who must find so much in life to make it worth while.  Another hour passed while the yacht stumbled her clumsy course to safety.  Arthur reported another half-foot; in all three feet six inches of water swishing against the engine-room bulkhead.

“It will keep seepin’ through,” he said, “and wop!  Suddenly the whole bulkhead’ll go.”

“Don’t get caught,” replied Dan.  “Give us three more hours, chief.  Oh, I say, there’s not a drop getting into the fire room yet?  Thank God for that!”

“For what?”