He went grumbling down into the cabin, and I watched the ocean. The
barometer was low, and out of the west a pack of fat black clouds
swarmed up from the horizon, stacking themselves one upon another till
they resembled a huge pile of rounded boulders which a sudden puff of
wind might bring toppling down upon us. The faint scouting puffs of
air--"the devil's breath" of the poetical Polynesians--whined through
the stays, but the small waves that tried to rise in expectation were
clouted back by the heavy, oppressive atmosphere that ironed out the
ocean till one's imagination pictured it waiting for the word like a
strained runner on his mark.

It burst at last. Three violent blasts ripped over us like projectiles,
and the "song of the dead men" was twanged upon the straining ropes.
_The Waif_ stopped for an instant, as if debating whether she would run
or cower before the onslaught, then she dipped her nose into the mad
lather that rose around her and plunged forward. That jump seemed to be
a challenge to the storm. It burst upon us in all its fury, and the
yacht became a tiny seesaw upon the murderous Himalayas that rose around
us.

Great chunks of green water came hurtling over the rail, thundering down
upon us till _The Waif_ was buried in a boiling turmoil from which she
would leap and shake herself, only to be pulled down again when the next
sea fell upon us. When she sprang out of the lather, those devilish,
snarling, snaky waves sprang after her, slapping at her flanks, tearing
and biting at her like a pack of wolves. There's an awful likeness to a
wolf pack about storm waves. When you see them all foam-lathered
stretching out like a pack in full cry, or watch them leaping up as if
they were trying to see whether the unfortunate ship had been torn down
by one of their band, you begin to credit them with some sort of