of this storm. How can it be done?
A forlorn venture. It can but fail."

"You are as good as dead if you don't," was Joe's sensible verdict.

Jack Cockrell forgot his wretched qualms of mind and body. The trumpet
call of duty invigorated him. He was no longer a useless lump. The color
returned to his cheek as he crawled from under the boat and shakily
hauled himself to his feet. Joe Hawkridge nodded approval and exhorted:

"A stiff upper lip, my gallant young gentleman. Steady she goes, an' not
too hasty. Ned Rackham is as sharp as a whetted sword. Ware ye, boy,
lest he pick up the scent. Fetch me word, here, beneath this
jolly-boat."

Jack stole away, staggering along the high poop deck until he could
cling to the life-line stretched along the roof of the great cabin.
There he slumped down and feigned helplessness, banged against the
bulwark as a dripping heap of misery or kicked aside by the pirates of
the watch as they were relieved at the steering tackles. From
half-closed eyes he watched Ned Rackham, a vigilant, dominant figure in
a tarred jacket and quilted breeches and long sea-boots. Now and again
he cupped his hands and yelled in the ear of Captain Wellsby whose beard
was gray with brine.

Jack saw that it was hopeless to get a private word with the skipper on
deck. The clamor of the storm was too deafening. The one chance was to
intercept him in the cabin when he went below for food and drink. Jack
dragged himself to the after hatchway which was shoved open a trifle to
admit air, and squeezed himself through. Before he tumbled down the
steep staircase he turned to glance at Captain Wellsby. Unseen by Ned
Rackham, the boy raised his hand in a furtive, beckoning gesture.

The pirates had taken the main room of the after-house for their own
use, driving the passengers and ship's officers into the small cabins or
staterooms. The air was foul below, reeking of the bilges, and the main
room was incredibly filthy. The pirates ate from dirty dishes, they had
scattered food about, and they kicked off their boots to sleep on the
floor like pigs in a sty.

Several of them were seated at the long table, bottle and mug in hand,
and the gloomy place was poorly lighted by a swinging whale-oil lamp.
Jack Cockrell crept unnoticed into a corner and was giddy and almost
helpless with nausea. It seemed ages before Captain Wellsby's legs
appeared in the hatchway and he came down into the cabin, bringing a
shower of spray w