So Denman paced the deck, occasionally peeping down the engine-room hatch at the dynamo, and again trying the drift by the old-fashioned chip-and-reel log at the stern. When tired, he would sit down in the deck chair, which he had wedged between the after torpedo and the taffrail, then resume his pacing.

As darkness closed down, he sought Florrie's door, and asked her if she would eat something. She was too ill, she said; and, knowing that no words could comfort her, he left her, and in the galley ate his own supper--tinned meat, bread, and coffee.

Again the deck, the intermittent pacing, and resting in the chair. The gale became a hurricane in the occasional squalls; and at these times the seas were beaten to a level of creamy froth luminous with a phosphorescent glow, while the boat's rolling motion would give way to a stiff inclination to starboard of fully ten degrees. Then the squalls would pass, the seas rise the higher for their momentary suppression, and the boat resume her wallowing, rolling both rails under, and practically under water, except for the high forecastle deck, the funnels, and the companions.

Denman did not worry. With the wind northwest, the storm center was surely to the north and east-ward of him; and he knew that, according to the laws of storms in the North Atlantic, it would move away from him and out to sea.

And so it continued until about midnight, when he heard the rasping of the companion hood, then saw Florrie's face peering out. He sprang to the companion.

"Billie! Oh, Billie!" she said, plaintively. "Let me come up here with you?"

"But you'll feel better lying down, dear," he said. "Better go back."

"It's so close and hot down there. Please let me come up."

"Why, yes, Florrie, if you like; but wait until I fit you out. Come down a moment."

They descended, and he found rubber boots, a sou'wester, and a long oilskin coat, which she donned in her room. Then he brought up another chair, lashed it--with more neckties--to his own, and seated her in it.

"Don't be frightened," he said, as a sea climbed on board and washed aft, nearly flooding their rubber boots and eliciting a little scream from the girl. "We're safe, and the wind will blow out in a few hours."

He seated himself beside her. As they faced to leeward, the long brims of the sou'westers sheltered their faces from the blast of rain and spume, permitting conversation; but they did not converse for a time, Denman only reaching up inside the long sleeve of her big coat to where her small hand nestled, soft and warm, in its shelter. He squeezed it gently, but there was no answering pressure, and he contented himself with holding it.

He was a good sailor, but a poor lover, and--a reeling, water-washed deck in a gale of wind is an embarrassing obstacle to love-making. Yet he squeezed again, after ten minutes of silence had gone by and several seas had bombarded their feet. Still no response in kind, and he spoke.

"Florrie," he said, as gently as he could when he was compelled to shout, "do you remember the letter you sent me the other day?"

"The other day," she answered. "Why, it seems years since then."

"Last week, Florrie. It made me feel like--like thirty cents."

"Why, Billie?"

"Oh, the unwritten roast between the lines, little girl. I knew what you thought of me. I knew that I'd never made good."

"How--what do you mean?"

"About the fight--years ago. I was to come back and lick him, you know, and didn't--that's all."

"Are you still thinking of that, Billie? Why, you've won. You are an officer, while he is a sailor."

"Yes, but he licked me at school, and I know you expected me to come back."

"And you did not come back. You never let me hear from you. You might have been dead for years before I could know it."

"Is that it, Florrie?" he exclaimed, in amazement. "Was it me you thought of? I supposed you had grown to despise me."

She did not answer this; but when he again pressed her hand she responded. Then, over the sounds of the storm, he heard a little sob; and, reaching over, drew her face close to his, and kissed her.

"I'm sorry, Florrie, but I didn't know. I've loved you all these years, but I did not know it until a few days ago. And I'll never forget it, Florrie, and I promise you--and myself, too--that I'll still make good, as I promised before."

Poor lover though he was, he had won. She did not answer, but her own small hand reached for his.

And so they passed the night, until, just as a lighter gray shone in the east, he noticed that one of the red lamps at the signal yard had gone out. As the lights were still necessary, he went forward to lower them; but, just as he was about to mount the bridge stairs, a crashing blow from two heavy fists sent him headlong and senseless to the deck.

When he came to, he was bound hand and foot as he had bound the men--with neckerchiefs--and lay close to the forward funnel, with the whole thirteen, Jenkins and all, looking down at him. But Jenkins was not speaking. Forsythe, searching Denman's pockets, was doing all that the occasion required.

CHAPTER XVII

When Sampson had entered the forecastle after his rescue by Denman, he found a few of his mates in their bunks, the rest sitting around in disconsolate postures, some holding their aching heads, others looking indifferently at him with bleary eyes. The apartment, long and triangular in shape, was dimly lighted by four deadlights, two each side, and for a moment Sampson could not distinguish one from another.

"Where's my bag?" he demanded, generally. "I want dry clothes."

He groped his way to the bunk he had occupied, found his clothes bag, and drew out a complete change of garments.

"Who's got a knife?" was his next request; and, as no one answered, he repeated the demand in a louder voice.

"What d'you want of a knife?" asked Forsythe, with a slight snarl.

"To cut your throat, you hang-dog scoundrel," said Sampson, irately.

"Forsythe, you speak kindly and gently to me while we're together, or I'll break some o' your small bones. Who's got a knife?"

"Here's one, Sampson," said Hawkes, offering one of the square-bladed jackknives used in the navy.

"All right, Hawkes. Now, will you stand up and rip these wet duds off me? I can't get 'em off with the darbies in the way."

Hawkes stood up and obeyed him. Soon the dripping garments fell away, and Sampson rubbed himself dry with a towel, while Hawkes sleepily turned in.

"What kept you, and what happened?" asked Kelly. "Did he douse you with a bucket o' water?"

Sampson did not answer at once--not until he had slashed the side seams of a whole new suit, and crawled into it. Then, as he began fastening it on with buttons and strings, he said, coldly:

"Worse than that. He's made me his friend."

"His friend?" queried two or three.

"His friend," repeated Sampson. "Not exactly while he has me locked up," he added; "but if I ever get out again--that's all. And his friend in some ways while I'm here. D'you hear that, Forsythe?"

Forsythe did not answer, and Sampson went on: "And not only his friend, but the woman's too. Hear that, Forsythe?"

Forsythe refused to answer.

"That's right, and proper," went on Sampson, as he fastened the last button. "Hide your head and saw wood, you snake-eyed imitation of a man."

"What's up, Sampson?" wearily asked Casey from a bunk. "What doused you, and what you got on Forsythe now?"

"I'll tell you in good time," responded Sampson. "I'll tell you now about Denman. I threw all the booze overboard at his orders. Then _I_ tumbled over; and, as I can't swim, would ha' been there yet if he hadn't jumped after me. Then we couldn't get up the side, and the woman come with a tablecloth, that held me up until I was towed to the anchor ladder. That's all. I just want to hear one o' you ginks say a word about that woman that she wouldn't like to hear. That's for you all--and for _you_, Forsythe, a little more in good time."