It was one chance in ten that we could claw off. All knew it, and all knew there was nothing more to do but await the issue. And we waited in silence. The only voice was that of the mate, intermittently cursing, threatening, and ordering Tom Spink and the Maltese Cockney at the wheel. Between whiles, and all the while, he gauged the gusts, and ever his eyes lifted to the main-topgallant-yard. He wanted to set that one more sail. A dozen times I saw him half-open his mouth to give the order he dared not give. And as I watched him, so all watched him. Hard-bitten, bitter-natured, sour-featured and snarling-mouthed, he was the one man, the henchman of the race, the master of the moment. “And where,” was my thought, “O where was the Samurai?” One chance in ten? It was one in a hundred as we fought to weather the last bold tooth of rock that gashed into sea and tempest between us and open ocean. So close were we that I looked to see our far-reeling skysail-yards strike the face of the rock. So close were we, no more than a biscuit toss from its iron buttress, that as we sank down into the last great trough between two seas I can swear every one of us held breath and waited for the _Elsinore_ to strike. Instead we drove free. And as if in very rage at our escape, the storm took that moment to deal us the mightiest buffet of all. The mate felt that monster sea coming, for he sprang to the wheel ere the blow fell. I looked for’ard, and I saw all for’ard blotted out by the mountain of water that fell aboard. The _Elsinore_ righted from the shock and reappeared to the eye, full of water from rail to rail. Then a gust caught her sails and heeled her over, spilling half the enormous burden outboard again. Along the bridge came the relayed cry of “Man overboard!” I glanced at the mate, who had just released the wheel to the helmsmen. He shook his head, as if irritated by so trivial a happening, walked to the corner of the half-wheelhouse, and stared at the coast he had escaped, white and black and cold in the moonlight. Mr. Mellaire came aft, and they met beside me in the lee of the chart-house. “All hands, Mr. Mellaire,” the mate said, “and get the mainsail off of her. After that, the mizzen-topgallant.” “Yes, sir,” said the second. “Who was it?” the mate asked, as Mr. Mellaire was turning away. “Boney—he was no good, anyway,” came the answer. That was all. Boney the Splinter was gone, and all hands were answering the command of Mr. Mellaire to take in the mainsail. But they never took it in; for at that moment it started to blow away out of the bolt-ropes, and in but few moments all that was left of it was a few short, slatting ribbons. “Mizzen-topgallant-sail!” Mr. Pike ordered. Then, and for the first time, he recognized my existence. “Well rid of it,” he growled. “It never did set properly. I was always aching to get my hands on the sail-maker that made it.”