Angel. The
barometer's rising now. The storm-center's leaving us, and we're
drifting ashore," said the captain. "I know pretty well where I am.
These storms follow an invariable track, and I judge the center is to
the east of us, moving north. That's why we didn't run into it when we
thought we were dodging it. We'll square away with the wind on the
starboard quarter now, and if we pick up the Stream and the glass don't
rise, I'll be satisfied to turn in. I'm about fagged out."

"It's too much for me, Bill," answered Mr. Todd, wearily. "I can
navigate; but this ain't navigation. This is blindman's-buff."

But he set the head-sail for his captain, and again the brig fled
before the wind. Only once did they round to for soundings, and this
time found no bottom; so they squared away, and when, a few hours
later, the seas came aboard warm, Swarth was confident enough of his
position to allow his mind to dwell on pettier details of his business.

It was nearly breakfast-time now, and the men would soon be eating.
With his pistols in his coat pockets he stationed himself beside the
scuttle of the fore-hatch,--the entrance to the forecastle,--and waited
long and patiently, listening to occasional comments on his folly and
bad seamanship which ascended from below, until the harsh voice of Tom
Plate on the stairs indicated his coming up. He reached toward Tom with
one hand, holding a cocked pistol with the other; but Tom slid easily
out of his wavering grasp and fled along the deck. He followed his
footsteps until he lost them, and picked up instead the angry plaint of
the negro cook in the galley amidships.

"I do' know who you are, but you want to git right out o' my galley,
now. You heah me? I'se had enough o' dis comin' inter my galley. Gwan,
now! Is you de man dat's all time stealin' my coffee? I'll gib you
coffee, you trash! Take dat!"

Captain Swarth reached the galley door in time to receive on the left
side of his face a generous share of a pot of scalding coffee. It
brought an involuntary shriek of agony from him; then he clung to the
galley-lashings and spoke his mind. Still in torment, he felt his way
through the galley; but the cook and the intruder had escaped by the
other door and made no sound.

All that day and the night following he chose to lie in his darkened
state-room, with his face bandaged in oily cloths, while Yank Tate
stood his watch. In the morning he removed the bandages and took in the
sight