Long afterward when they talked the matter over, DeMille claimed that the only thing that bothered him that night was the effort to decide whether the club of which he and Monty were members would put in the main hallway two black-bordered cards, each bearing a name, or only one with both names.  Mr. Valentine regretted that he had gone on for years paying life insurance premiums when now his only relatives were on the boat and would die with him.

The captain, looking pretty rocky after his twenty-four hour vigil, summoned his chief.  “We’re in a bad hole, Mr. Brewster,” he said when they were alone, “and no mistake.  A broken shaft and this weather make a pretty poor combination.”

“Is there no chance of making a port for repairs?”

“I don’t see it, sir.  It looks like a long pull.”

“We are way off our course, I suppose?” and Monty’s coolness won Captain Perry’s admiration.

“I can’t tell just how much until I get the sun, but this wind is hell.  I suspect we’ve drifted pretty far.”

“Come and get some coffee, captain.  While the storm lasts the only thing to do is to cheer up the women and trust to luck.”

“You’re the nerviest mate I ever shipped with, Mr. Brewster,” and the captain’s hand gripped Monty’s in a way that meant things.  It was a tribute he appreciated.

During the day Monty devoted himself to his guests, and at the first sign of pensiveness he was ready with a jest or a story.  But he did it all with a tact that inspired the crowd as a whole with hope, and no one suspected that he himself was not cheerful.  For Peggy Gray there was a special tenderness, and he made up his mind that if things should go wrong he would tell her that he loved her.

“It could do no harm,” he thought to himself, “and I want her to know.”

Toward night the worst was over.  The sea had gone down and the hatches were opened for a while to admit air, though it was still too rough to venture out.  The next morning was bright and clear.  When the company gathered on deck the havoc created by the storm was apparent.  Two of the boats had been completely carried away and the launch was rendered useless by a large hole in the stern.

“You don’t mean to say that we will drift about until the repairs can be made?” asked Mrs. Dan in alarm.

“We are three hundred miles off the course already,” explained Monty, “and it will be pretty slow traveling under sail.”

It was decided to make for the Canary Islands, where repairs could be made and the voyage resumed.  But where the wind had raged a few days before, it had now disappeared altogether, and for a week the “Flitter” tossed about absolutely unable to make headway.  The first of August had arrived and Monty himself was beginning to be nervous.  With the fatal day not quite two months away, things began to look serious.  Over one hundred thousand dollars would remain after he had settled the expenses