And soon there would be a hundred of them, one racing after the other. And a thousand more of them--only this rust-eaten hull, with her scrollwork topsides, would not hold together long enough to see a thousand of them. Jan tried to figure out how far they were from the Cape Cod shore. Ten, fifteen, twenty miles. Call it twenty. Jan doubted if she would live to get there, even with the gale behind her. He walked round the house to look into the lighted saloon. She was there--the poor girl--sitting patiently by herself. Long before this the orchestra had given up playing and only a dozen passengers or so were there; but she was the only lone one--in a red plush chair under a cluster of wall-lights. Besides the passengers, there was one steward and a colored maid, both staring together through the lighted window. Jan's feet were wet. He went down to the bar, where he called for a drink of ginger ale and a pint flask of brandy. "Of your best," he added. Leaning against the bar he listened to the loungers there. Four of them were at a table under a window which looked out on the open deck. One was struggling in a loud voice with what should have been a funny story. His companions neglected no chance to laugh, but after each laugh they hastily sipped their drinks. At intervals the wind would shriek and at each shriek they would look past each other with exaggerated calmness; but when the sea pounded the hull, and the spray splashed thickly against the window over their heads, they would look up at the window or across at the door. And when the boat would roll down and, rolling, threaten to dump them all on the floor, they would grab the table and yell "Whoa!" or "Wait a second!" with just a suggestion of hysteria in their throats; and somebody would call out, "Go on with the story, Joe!" and the story-teller would hasten to resume. Jan turned to the bartender, who was filling waiting stewards' hurried orders calmly if not impassively. After every heavy sea he would stop pouring or mixing to glance with unaffected interest at the beams above him or the door opening onto the deck. He was an undersized man with lean, pale cheeks, a hard chin, and a bright, cold eye. Once he looked fairly at Jan and Jan looked fairly at him. It was like an introduction. "You a sea-going man?" he asked. "I used to go to sea," admitted Jan. "I thought so. But those there,"--he lowered his voice and leaned across the bar to Jan,--"they don't know whether this is a real bad gale or just the reg'lar thing. One of 'em says a while ago: 'This is the kind of weather I like!' I bet it's his first trip. But most of the passengers, the stewards tell me, are turned in, trying to forget it." "Better for 'em," said Jan. "Maybe so, too; but what do you think of it?" Jan shook his head. "I will be glad when morning comes."