“And you, Mr. Rice?” “What about me?” asked Rice. “Have you nothing to say?” “I’ve been in a lot of tight corners before this,” said Rice, “and I’ve gotten out of them. I see no occasion to entertain you with excerpts from my life.” “Do you know who killed Mrs. Breese?” insisted the Russian. “If I did,” said Rice, “I would take great pleasure in finishing that gentleman off before this boat got me. Now suppose you go back to your prayers and leave us alone.” “You’re a poor miserable sinner,” cried the Russian. “Sulphur and brimstone await you in hell! You blasphemer!” “Listen,” said Rice, “whatever awaits me, I’ll take as my due. I don’t need any religion from you. I guess I’ve done plenty in my life that I’d rather not talk about, but I’ll stand the gaff, thank you. Just leave me alone. And if we’re passing out, let’s pass out like gentlemen, not a bunch of wild hysterical hyenas like you.” “I agree with you,” said Smith. We heard footsteps at the door. Then I saw the Captain walk slowly toward us. He was dripping wet and his eyes were red-rimmed. Breese jumped up from his chair. “Well,” he cried, “about time you came! What’s happened?” “We’ve had nasty going,” said the Captain. His voice was hoarse. He spoke hardly above a whisper. “Never mind that,” shouted Breese impatiently. “Can you get us out of it?” “I’m sorry, sir,” he reported, “But we’ve stepped into the path of a cyclone. And I’m afraid we can’t weather this storm much longer in our present shape!” “But you’ve got to do something!” cried Breese. “There’s nothing to do, sir,” replied the Captain quietly. “We’re in a rather bad way!” “Do you mean to tell me,” cried Breese, “that you’re standing by with folded hands and letting us go to our deaths? Man, are you mad?” The Captain turned on his heel wearily and left Breese expostulating to thin air. The Russian had fallen to his knees. “God forgive them, miserable sinners,” he shouted above the howling of the wind. “Forgive the miserable sinner, Thomas, who lied and cheated from his cradle. He did not know what he was doing. Forgive the arrogant Breese. Forgive the unbeliever, Rice. Forgive the children. Forgive us all, as we come to you from the bottom of the sea!” Strange cries mingled with the prayer. We ran to the door, trying to peer into the black darkness. The yacht tossed, and hurled us violently at each other, and against the walls. The Russian prayed on. Then I saw our radio man moving toward Perutkin. I had paid no attention to him heretofore. He seemed oddly out of place among these people--a colorless, humdrum, frightened little fellow. He sank to his knees beside the Russian and he tapped the giant’s shoulder. “What is it, my son?” Perutkin halted his prayer and looked gently at the mechanic. “Will you--pray for me?” he begged. “Certainly, my son,” replied the Russian. “I shall pray for you.”