Boston had judged rightly in regard to the wind.  It had hauled slowly to the southward, allowing him to make the course he wished—­through the Bahama and up the Florida Channel with the wind over the stern.  During the day he could guide himself by landmarks, but at night, with a darkened binnacle, he could only steer blindly on with the wind at his back.  The storm centre, at first to the south of Cuba, had made a wide circle, concentric with the curving course of the ship, and when the latter had reached the upper end of the Florida channel, had spurted ahead and whirled out to sea across her bows.  It was then that the undiminished gale, blowing nearly west, had caused Boston, in despair, to throw the wheel down and bring the ship into the trough of the sea—­to drift.  Then the two wet, exhausted, hollow-eyed men slept the sleep that none but sailors and soldiers know; and when they awakened, twelve hours later, stiff and sore, it was to look out on a calm, starlit evening, with an eastern moon silvering the surface of the long, northbound rollers, and showing in sharp relief a dark horizon, on which there was no sign of land or sail.

They satisfied their hunger; then Boston, with a rusty iron pot from the galley, to which he fastened the end of his rope, dipped up some of the water from over the side.  It was warm to the touch, and, aware that they were in the Gulf Stream, they crawled under the musty bedding in the cabin berths and slept through the night.  In the morning there was no promise of the easterly wind that Boston hoped would come to blow them to port, and they secured their boat—­reeving off davit-tackles, and with the plug out, pulling it up, one end at a time, while the water drained out through the hole in the bottom.

“Now, Boston,” said the doctor, “here we are, as you say, on the outer edge of the Gulf Stream, drifting out into the broad Atlantic at the rate of four miles an hour.  We’ve got to make the best of it until something comes along; so you hunt through that store-room and see what else there is to eat, and I’ll examine the cargo.  I want to know where that acid went.”

They opened all the hatches, and while Boston descended to the lazarette, the doctor, with his trousers rolled up, climbed down the notched steps in a stanchion.  In a short time he came up with a yellow substance in his hand, which he washed thoroughly with fresh water in Boston’s improvised draw-bucket, and placed in the sun to dry.  Then he returned to the ’tween-deck.  After a while, Boston, rummaging the lazarette, heard him calling through the bulkhead, and joined him.

“Look here, Boston,” said the doctor; “I’ve cleared away the muck over this hatch.  It’s ‘corked,’ as you sailormen call it.  Help me get it up.”