It was now quite impossible to hear anything beyond the heavy patter of the big raindrops upon the boat. It was a continuous tattoo that outvied the roar of the wind. At this juncture the candle of the binnacle lamp blew out. To attempt to relight it was out of the question. Every part of the boat's interior was subject to a furious eddy of wind. A match would not burn a moment. "Hardly good enough," decided Peter, wiping the moisture from his eyes. "I'll get canvas stowed and out sea-anchor till the worst of this is over." With his disengaged hand Mostyn tapped Mahmed on the shoulder. Desisting from his task of baling, the boy looked into his master's face. "Tell them to stow canvas," shouted Peter, indicating the invisible lascars crouching against the main thwart. "I'll tend the mainsheet. Look sharp!" Mahmed raised himself and began to crawl over the thwarts on his way for'ard. Suddenly there was a terrific shock. The boat seemed to jump a couple or three feet vertically, and then come to an abrupt stop with a jar that flung Peter from the tiller, and pitched Mahmed headlong until he was brought up by his head coming into contact with Mrs. Shallop's portly back. Olive, taken unawares, was jerked in a for'ard direction, until she saved herself from violent contact with stroke-bench by grasping Peter's arm. The pair subsided upon the gratings, narrowly missing what might have been a serious collision with the helpless Preston. Mostyn regained his feet in double quick time, and made a grab at the tiller. The boat was aground, lifting to every wave that surged against her port-bow. That she was badly damaged there could be no doubt, since water was pouring in through a strained garboard. Steadying himself by the now useless tiller, Peter peered anxiously into the darkness. Except for the phosphorescence of the breaking water alongside, there was nothing distinguishable. Sea and sky were blended into a uniform and impenetrable darkness. Everyone on board the boat, although fully aware of the immediate danger, maintained silence. The grinding of the boat's planking upon the sharp rocks, the howling of the wind, and the swish of the breaking waves were the only audible sounds. It seemed to Mostyn that, in his self-assumed position of skipper of the boat, he must do or say something. He did neither. He could form no sentence of encouragement; he was unable to take any action to further safeguard the lives and interests of his companions. He felt cool and collected, yet he had a suspicion that he "had the wind up". Try as he would his benumbed brain would not answer to his efforts. It was Preston who broke the spell. Lying half-submerged in water, the Acting Chief was taking things calmly in spite of his physical disability. "Sparks, old man," he exclaimed, "you look like losing your ticket. I do believe you've run us aground." The silence was broken. Peter laughed at his companion's quip.