As the breeze remained steady and there was no indication of any change in the weather, Tempest gave the tiller to Dave during the morning, and snatched a couple of hours’ sleep, curled up in the bottom of the boat. It was afternoon when the boy aroused him. He would not have done so then, but for the unexpected happening. Within the space of twenty minutes the wind developed a chilly tang, and ominous clouds gathered overhead. The weather-wise Kanaka constantly glanced upwards, but made no comment until a sudden rain squall hit them. “We’ll have um sea get up pretty soon,” he said then, without any change of expression. “You’re right, I believe, Jim,” Dave agreed. “This is where we rouse the skipper, I guess.” Tempest frowned as he took the tiller again. He did not like the look of things. They had taken a chance in a small open boat, and if a real storm broke they would be entirely at its mercy, for they were many miles from the nearest shelter. Three minutes later the wind dropped to a dead calm and the sails hung limp, while a curious yellow tinge developed in the northern sky. “Now we’re in for it!” Tempest muttered. “Here Jim, you hang on to this rudder. Dave, the mainsail, quick,” he added, letting go the sheet. “That’s right. Now the jib――stop! It’s too late. Hang on for your life. Here she comes.” A furious blast struck the _Nautilus_ on the starboard quarter. The little craft quivered and then wallowed in a welter of seething water. The jib gave a crack like a mighty whip, one rope tore away, and the canvas flapped madly as it hung over the side. Tempest gave one glance at it, decided nothing could be done to make it secure in such an emergency, and crawled to the Kanaka’s side. At all costs they had to keep the boat running before the wind. She was slewing round desperately, spun by the corkscrew action of the growing waves. In an incredibly short space of time the whole surface of the ocean had become a smother of white, boiling crests, with yawning valleys of water between them. At one moment the trim little _Nautilus_ was buried down, down, with great swirling walls on every side. Then she climbed, stern first, up the side of an endless hill of green, pausing dizzily at the crest and careening over perilously under the pressure of wind. Instead of moderating, the gale grew steadily worse, and both Dave and Tempest thought their end was approaching. There seemed no possible hope of the _Nautilus_ keeping afloat. A dozen times she was on the verge of being swamped but always struggled bravely to right herself. “It’s my fault, lad,” Tempest said, gripping the boy’s hand. “I ought to have had more sense.” Dave’s face was white. He looked a little older at that fearful moment. It was terribly hard to have to lie there, braced up against a seat, and do nothing but wait. “Nobody could have known this was coming,” he said quietly.