intelligence.

_The Waif_ was no poppycock yacht, built to dodge about the Solent and
run for Cowes if the wind blew a capful. She had been built to hold her
own with the hardest slamming seas that ever chased a shattered hull,
and it was lucky for us that she was. The storm that came screeching
after us from way across the Coral Sea was one of those high-powered
freak disturbances that juggle with lumps of water like a vaudeville
performer juggling with cheap crockery. It took the tops off those
rollers and pelted them at us, and the wind seemed to yell in triumph
when the yacht was buried in the whirlpools in which she dived headlong.

All through the night we raced before it, and through the following day
_The Waif_ never paused for an instant in her mad race to the eastward.
The Kanakas became demoralized with fear, and I forgot the trouble
hanging over the heads of the girls and their father as I helped
Newmarch drag the crew from their bunks to cut away the wreckage of the
vessel.

I saw a new side of the captain during those hours. A very devil of
energy took hold of him with the coming of the storm, and he became a
human dynamo. He pounded the frightened crew unmercifully, dragging the
screaming islanders back to their work by the hair of their heads, and
heaping upon them curses that were strange and blood-curdling. That he
was a good sailorman I had little doubt. He handled _The Waif_ with
skill and patience, while the crew, with rolling eyes and quivering
lips, were so terrorized by his wrath that they fled to do his bidding.

I had been wondering since the moment when he had ordered me to let go
my grip of the Kanaka in the f'c'stle, if he was afraid that any