"port-holes," and big guns were pointed out through them.

A sailor with a rope about his waist tried to walk across the deck, but
was thrown along the wet and slippery boards like a ball tossed from the
hands of a child. In a queer set of outside garments that I have learned
are called "oil-skins," the crew, officers, and captain went to and fro,
trying their best to keep things straight.

In some way I knew that the brave captain was not afraid. A little pale
he was, surely, but his voice was firm as he called through a strange
fixture called the ship's trumpet. And his hands did not shake as he
tried to peer through a great glass across the rolling sea.

The sailor with the rope about him was again and again tossed and
tumbled about as he tried to make the passage across the deck, but as
often as he tried his mates would have to pull on the rope and right
him. And I still think, as I did that night, that a ship's crew,
sailors, officers, and captain, are brave, brave folk,--the bravest
Folks I know.

As the storm went crashing on, I kept thrusting myself downward, in
hopes to plunge lower than the storm circle. No use. I was upborne every
time, and after many attempts knew it would be best to simply float as I
must.

I had drifted far from the sailing-vessel, when, as I floated high on
the crest of a wave, I looked upon a pleasure-craft of some kind, riding
high upon the breakers. Men who were not regular sailors looked with
startled eyes on the terrible sea. They were calm and quiet, but from
the way they questioned the staunch skipper, and watched the men forming