“What is that?” exclaimed Bickley, staring at something which now I saw for the first time. It looked like a line of white approaching through the gloom. With it came a hissing sound, and although there was still no wind, the rigging began to moan mysteriously like a thing in pain. A big drop of water also fell from the sides into my pipe and put it out. Then one of the sailors cried in a hoarse voice: “Get down below, governors, unless you want to go out to sea!” “Why?” inquired Bastin. “Why? Becos the ‘urricane is coming, that’s all. Coming as though the devil had kicked it out of ‘ell.” Bastin seemed inclined to remonstrate at this sort of language, but we pushed him down the companion and followed, propelling the spaniel Tommy in front of us. Next moment I heard the sailors battening the hatch with hurried blows, and when this was done to their satisfaction, heard their feet also as they ran into shelter. Another instant and we were all lying in a heap on the cabin floor with poor Tommy on top of us. The cyclone had struck the ship! Above the wash of water and the screaming of the gale we heard other mysterious sounds, which doubtless were caused by the yards hitting the seas, for the yacht was lying on her side. I thought that all was over, but presently there came a rending, crashing noise. The masts, or one of them, had gone, and by degrees we righted. “Near thing!” said Bickley. “Good heavens, what’s that?” I listened, for the electric light had temporarily gone out, owing, I suppose, to the dynamo having stopped for a moment. A most unholy and hollow sound was rising from the cabin floor. It might have been caused by a bullock with its windpipe cut, trying to get its breath and groaning. Then the light came on again and we saw Bastin lying at full length on the carpet. “He’s broken his neck or something,” I said. Bickley crept to him and having looked, sang out: “It’s all right! He’s only sea-sick. I thought it would come to that if he drank so much tea.” “Sea-sick,” I said faintly—“sea-sick?” “That’s all,” said Bickley. “The nerves of the stomach acting on the brain or vice-versa—that is, if Bastin has a brain,” he added sotto voce. “Oh!” groaned the prostrate clergyman. “I wish that I were dead!” “Don’t trouble about that,” answered Bickley. “I expect you soon will be. Here, drink some whisky, you donkey.” Bastin sat up and obeyed, out of the bottle, for it was impossible to pour anything into a glass, with results too dreadful to narrate. “I call that a dirty trick,” he said presently, in a feeble voice, glowering at Bickley. “I expect I shall have to play you a dirtier before long, for you are a pretty bad case, old fellow.”