“What tragedy docs this tell of?” said the doctor.  “They left this ship in the ice fifty years ago.  Who can tell if they were saved?”

“Who indeed?” said Boston.  “The mate hadn’t much hope.  He said ‘Good-bye.’  But one thing is certain; we are the first to board her since.  I take it she stayed down there in the ice until she drifted around the Pole, and thawed out where she could catch the Cape Horn current, which took her up to the Hope.  Then she came up with the South African Current till she got into the Equatorial drift, then west, and up with the Guiana Current into the Caribbean Sea to the southward of us, and this morning the flood-tide brought her through.  It isn’t a question of winds; they’re too variable.  It’s currents, though it may have taken her years to get here.  But the surprising part of it is that she hasn’t been boarded.  Let’s look in the hold and see what the fire has done.”

When they boarded the hulk, the sky, with the exception of a filmy haze overhanging the eastern end of the island, was clear.  Now, as they emerged from the cabin, this haze had solidified and was coming—­one of the black and vicious squalls of the West India seas.

“No man can tell what wind there is in them,” remarked Boston, as he viewed it.  “But it’s pretty close to the water, and dropping rain.  Hold on, there, Doc.  Stay aboard.  We couldn’t pull ashore in the teeth of it.”  The doctor had made a spasmodic leap to the rail.  “If the chains were shackled on, we might drop one of the hooks and hold her; but it’s two hours work for a full crew.”

“But we’re likely to be blown away, aren’t we?” asked the doctor.

“Not far.  I don’t think it’ll last long.  We’ll make the boat fast astern and get out of the wet.”  They did so, and entered the cabin.  Soon the squall, coming with a shock like that of a solid blow, struck the hulk broadside to and careened her.  From the cabin door they watched the nearly horizontal rain as it swished across the deck, and listened to the screaming of the wind, which prevented all conversation.  Silently they waited—­one hour—­two hours—­then Boston said:  “This is getting serious.  It’s no squall.  If it wasn’t so late in the season I’d call it a hurricane.  I’m going on deck.”

He climbed the companionway stairs to the poop, and shut the scuttle behind him—­for the rain was flooding the cabin—­then looked around.  The shore and horizon were hidden by a dense wall of gray, which seemed not a hundred feet distant.  From to windward this wall was detaching great waves or sheets of almost solid water, which bombarded the ship in successive blows, to be then lost in the gray whirl to leeward.  Overhead was the same dismal hue, marked by hurrying masses of darker cloud, and below was a sea of froth, white and flat; for no waves could rise their heads in that wind.  Drenched to the skin, he tried the wheel and found it free in its movements.  In front of it was a substantial