“Ned’s with him, of course. I wanted to help but they ordered me below.” By this time all of our passengers had gathered in the cabin listening to Joe’s dismal report. Nux was there, too, tying Madam de Jiminez fast in a big chair so she would not fall out and then tendering his services wherever they were needed. For a wonder the ship became a bit steadier now that she was absolutely helpless. She got into the trough of the sea where the wind did not buffet her so badly, and although the waves washed over her constantly she was so tight and staunch that she shed the water like a duck. I do not remember ever to have passed a more uneasy hour than the one that followed the cracking of the screw and the loss of our rudder. Had it not been for the women it is likely I would have regarded our predicament in the light of an adventure, and been excited and elated over the danger. But the presence of our female passengers altered the case entirely and rendered it far more serious. We were a glum lot, if I may except Uncle Naboth, who still strove to smoke his pipe and remain philosophic. Alfonso was calm and endeavored to comfort his father by saying that as long as we floated the arms were safe. Lucia devoted herself to her mother with a coolness that was admirable, and Madam de Jiminez was as quiet and contented as ever, not making any sort of a fuss and proving her courage in a way that quite won us all. I do not know just what hysterics are; but if they’re a sort of a wild fit that induces one to run amuck, then Madam de Alcantara had them—and had them badly. She screeched, and kicked and howled and wailed that she was too young to die; although for that matter she hadn’t the advantage of many of us, and I don’t see that youth has any special show in a South Sea gale, anyhow. At the end of an hour my father came stumping in on his wooden leg, looking haggard and weary. “Brandy, Sam!” he said, tumbling into a chair. I brought him the bottle and a glass and he took a good swig. “Bry can’t make coffee. The galley’s washed out,” continued the captain. And then he drew his hand across his forehead with a gesture that I well knew, and that always betokened perturbation of an unusual sort. “Did you fail to ship the rudder?” I asked. “’Tain’t that, Sam. There wasn’t much chance, anyhow. But Billy Burke an’ Dick Leavenworth is washed away—gone—done for!” My heart gave a thump of dismay. Two of our finest seamen lost; fellows I had earnestly respected and admired. It was the first fatality our crew had ever experienced, so no wonder my father was broken-hearted over it. I remembered that Leavenworth had a family, and the thought made me shudder. “The ship will the storm stand, and be all good—will it not?” asked De Jiminez, by this time thoroughly unstrung and despairing. There was something almost pitiful in the question—hoping against hope—and of course Captain Steele lied to reassure him.