I was awakened next morning by a sensation as of mighty blows being
struck against the yacht’s hull, shaking it from stem to stem. My
nostrils caught the tang of cold sea air, while gusts of fog-laden
wind swept whistling past the open port-hole.
I dressed, went on deck, and swiftly retreated to shelter. The
_Wanderer_ was out at sea and boring her twelve-knot way through the
smoke and welter of a raw Spring gale from the north.
The entire aspect of the yacht, of its personnel, and of the
expedition seemed to have changed overnight. Captain Brack was upon
the bridge. His neat, gold-braided uniform had vanished and he wore a
rough sheepskin jacket and oilskin trousers. A shaggy cap was pulled
down to his eyes and he chewed and spat tobacco.
In the gray light of a raw day, shuddering and washed by spray, the
_Wanderer_ had become a grim, serviceable sea-conqueror rather than
the magnificent pleasure-boat she had seemed yesterday, and two
seamen, roughly clad and dripping, were putting extra lashings on a
life-boat forward.
I went down to breakfast with new impressions of the grim
potentialities of this expedition.
I had breakfast alone. Chanler was still in his stateroom and the
officers all had breakfasted long before. While I was eating, Freddy
Pierce popped his head in.
“Oh, hello; it’s you, is it,” he greeted. “I was looking for the boss;
another message.”
“Mr. Chanler is in his stateroom,” I said.
“He sent another message to this Jane—to Miss Baldwin, last night,”
said Pierce.