“Just what I expected,” cried Vanderpool.

“She’s going straight to New York!” declared Monty.  The words were hardly uttered when a heavy sea sent him sprawling across the cabin, and he concluded, “or to the bottom.”

“Not so bad as that,” said Captain Perry, whose entrance had been somewhat hastened by the lurch of the boat.  “But until this blows over I must keep you below.”  He laughed, but he saw they were not deceived.  “The seas are pretty heavy and the decks are being holystoned for nothing, but I wouldn’t like to have any of you washed overboard by mistake.”

The hatches were battened down, and it was a sorry company that tried to while away the evening in the main cabin.  Monty’s chafing about the advantages of the North Cape over the stormy Atlantic was not calculated to raise the drooping spirits, and it was very early when he and his shattered guests turned in.  There was little sleep on board the “Flitter” that night.  Even if it had been easy to forget the danger, the creaking of the ship and the incessant roar of the water were enough for wakefulness.  With each lurch of the boat it seemed more incredible that it could endure.  It was such a mite of a thing to meet so furious an attack.  As it rose on the wave to pause in terror on its crest before sinking shivering into the trough, it made the breath come short and the heart stand still.  Through the night the fragile little craft fought its lonely way, bravely ignoring its own weakness and the infinite strength of its enemy.  To the captain, lashed to the bridge, there were hours of grave anxiety—­hours when he feared each wave as it approached, and wondered what new damage it had done as it receded.  As the wind increased toward morning he felt a sickening certainty that the brave little boat was beaten.  Somehow she seemed to lose courage, to waver a bit and almost give tip the fight.  He watched her miserably as the dismal dawn came up out of the sea.  Yet it was not until seven o’clock that the crash came, which shook the passengers out of their berths and filled them with shivering terror.  The whirring of the broken shaft seemed to consume the ship.  In every cabin it spoke with terrible vividness of disaster.  The clamor of voices and the rush of many feet, which followed, meant but one thing.  Almost instantly the machinery was stopped—­an ominous silence in the midst of the dull roar of the water and the cry of the wind.

It was a terrified crowd that quickly gathered in the main cabin, but it was a brave one.  There were no cries and few tears.  They expected anything and were ready for the worst, but they would not show the white feather.  It was Mrs. Dan who broke the tension.  “I made sure of my pearls,” she said; “I thought they would be appreciated at the bottom of the sea.”

Brewster came in upon their laughter.  “I like your nerve, people,” he exclaimed, “you are all right.  It won’t be so bad now.  The wind has dropped.”