r," replied the man, respectfully
touching his cap as he advanced towards the gong that surrounded the
windlass and uncovered it. "Don't ye see the fog a-comin' down like the
wolf on the fold, an' ain't it my dooty to play a little tshune for the
benefit o' the public?"

Jerry hit the instrument as he spoke and drowned his own voice in its
sonorous roar. He was driven from his post, however, by Dick Moy, one
of the watch, who, having observed the approaching fog had gone forward
to sound the gong, and displayed his dislike to interference by
snatching the drumstick out of Jerry's hand and hitting him a smart blow
therewith on the top of his head.

As further conversation was under the circumstances impossible, John
Welton and his son retired to the cabin, where the former detailed to
the latter the visit of the strange gentleman with the keen grey eyes,
and the conversation that had passed between them regarding Morley
Jones. Still the youth remained unmoved, maintaining that suspicion was
not proof, although he admitted that things now looked rather worse than
they had done before.

While the father and son were thus engaged, a low moaning wail and an
unusual heave of the vessel caused them to hasten on deck, just as one
of the watch put his head down the hatch and shouted, "A squall, sir,
brewing up from the nor'-east."

CHAPTER THREE.

A DISTURBED NIGHT; A WRECK AND AN UNEXPECTED RESCUE.

The aspect of the night had completely changed. The fog had cleared
away; heavy clouds rolled athwart the sky; a deeper darkness descended
on the shipping at anchor in the Downs, and a gradually increasing swell
caused the Gull to roll a little and tug uneasily at her cable.
Nevertheless the warning light at her mast-head retained its
perpendicular position in consequence of a clever adaptation of
mechanism on the principle of the universal joint.

With the rise of the swell came the first rush of the squall.

"If they don't send the boat at once, you'll have to spend the night
with us, Jim," said the mate, looking anxiously in the direction of the
sloop belonging to Morley Jones, the dark outlines of which could just
be seen looming of a deeper black against the black sky.

"It's too late even now," returned Jim in an anxious tone; "the boat,
like everything else about the sloop, is a rotten old thing, and would
be stove against the side in this swell, slight though it be as yet.
But my chief trouble is, that the