that a
proper survey was deemed impracticable even by officers of the British
Navy, a service which has charted nearly every rock and shoal and tiny
islet on the face of the waters.

Neither man spoke while their practised scrutiny took in these details.
The roaring chaos of the gale told what fate awaited them. The
elemental forces had donned the black cap of the judge and sentenced
them to speedy destruction.

Mr. Boyle pursed his lips; he looked sideways at Courtenay.

"Huh," he said. "What's to be done?"

"I propose," answered the captain, coolly, "to endeavor--"

It was then that the giant wave leaped madly over the poop, as though
the sea were resolved to swallow its prey without further warning. The
second officer, outside on the bridge, had to cling to a stanchion for
his life. Courtenay and Boyle saw two boats wrenched from their davits
and carried overboard, while a bulkhead forward was smashed into
matchwood. The half-caste quarter-master at the wheel muttered
"Madonna!" and tried to remember a prayer.

"I propose," continued Courtenay, raising his voice so that the other
might hear, "to give the ship steering-way by hoisting the foresail.
Will you see to it? Then I intend to warn the passengers, and make
such preparations as are possible before we strike."

"Huh," agreed Mr. Boyle. He took the short cut over the rails. In a
few seconds the captain heard a flow of ornate Spanish, and he knew
that Mr. Boyle was getting the scared Chileans to work.

Then Courtenay went to his own cabin, in which, in the haste of his
exit, he had imprisoned Joey. The dog received him with delight, for
Joey knew a real gale from a sham one, as well as any man before the
mast. Courtenay patted his head, opened a drawer in the writing-table,
and drew forth two photographs, which he kissed. He replaced them,
locked the drawer, and went out, letting the dog come with him. That
was his farewell to his mother and sister; it was the first and last
sign of sentiment he exhibited during that night of great endurance.

When he returned from the saloon, he found the chief officer examining
the chart.

"Do you think we have any chance of making Concepcion Strait?" he
asked, pointing to the doubtfully marked channel which separates
Hanover and Duke of York Islands.

"If we set the mains'le we might bear up a bit."

"Try it."

"Huh," said Mr. Boyle, and he was off again into the spindrift.

Be it understood that