He gave a grunt and looked thoughtful. “I’ve seen gales, ’n’ gales,” he remarked presently. “Usually they’re respectable critters an’ you know what to expect of ’em. But this sort of a jugglin’ wind beats all figgerin’. Fer me, Sam, I fall back on our luck. It’s stayed by us so far, an’ I don’t see no reason fer it to change front. Eh?” “I agree with you, Uncle,” I replied, and was about to add another optimistic remark when in rushed—or tumbled, rather—Señor de Jiminez, his face white and his teeth chattering. He had shed his gorgeous raiment and was attired merely in a dark brown bath robe. “Tell me,” he said, steadying himself by the table as the ship lurched to leeward, “is there—can there be—any danger?” “Danger of what?” I asked, not knowing just how to reply to him. “To the cargo—to the arms!” he gasped in choking tones. Then I saw he was not frightened about the safety of the people, or even the ship, but was exercised solely on account of those precious arms. “Why, if we go down, the cargo goes with us,” I returned, smiling in spite of the gravity of the situation. “But I imagine we’ll all float long enough to—” The _Seagull_ lurched the other way as a great wave caught her, and while we clung to the furniture for support there came a sharp crack and the ship staggered and keeled well over. She lay there a long time, trembling slightly. I could hear the waves dash against her with the force of a trip hammer. The door of the stateroom opposite flew open and Madam de Alcantara came rolling into the cabin and landed at my feet. I managed to seize her and drag her to a chair beside me; but she clung round my neck sobbing and crying out: “What is it? Oh, what is it? Are we sinking? Is all lost?” This in Spanish was quite impressive. “Be calm, Madam,” I replied, noticing that she was robed in a charming dressing gown and had not been injured by her dash across the cabin floor. “There’s nothing serious the matter, you may be sure.” I was not really confident of this. Never had I known the _Seagull_ to behave in such a manner before. She rolled terribly, and the waves were dealing her sides thundering blows, one after another. Uncle Naboth was endeavoring to gain the door to get on deck when Joe came in, water running from his slicker in floods and his face covered with grease and grime. “What’s up, old man?” I demanded. “Screw snapped and tore away the rudder,” said Joe. “I was in the engine-room when it happened. It sent the wheels whirling, I can tell you, before we could shut down.” “Then we’re now drifting?” He nodded. “If there was any chance at all we could ship a new rudder. That would serve to keep us straight, anyhow, and we could use the sails as soon as the wind moderates. But the gale’s as crazy as a bedbug, and I can’t see that anything can be done just now.” “Nothing but wait,” said I. “Where’s father?” “Trying to lash a rudder to the stern; but it’s hopeless.” “And Ned?”