three strongish seas hit the schooner until she shuddered and rolled
under the immense burden. It was a fearful risk, but the vessel freed
herself and drove to the smack. One man was hanging on over the
starboard side which was hove up; the schooner swept on in cruel danger,
and the skipper might well look stern and white. "We sha'n't save it,"
he growled. Then Ferrier groaned, "Oh, God," for the keel of the smack
at last heaved up, and she went down, down, slowly down, while her
copper showed less and less, till the last fatal sea completed the work
of wrath and ruin.

Ferrier felt that sensation of sickness which I have so often seen shown
by strong men. The skipper said: "We'll heave her to again. You'd better
get below. Your pluck's all right, but an unlucky one might catch you,
and you ain't got the knack of watching for an extra drop o' water same
as us."

Lewis Ferrier went below and found all his friends looking anxious.
Indeed, the clamour was deafening, and the bravest man or woman had good
reason for feeling serious. Marion Dearsley looked at Ferrier with
parted lips, and he could see that she was unable to speak; but her
eyes made the dread inquiry which he expected. He bowed his head, and
the girl covered her face with a tearing sob: "Oh, the fatherless! O
Lord, holy and true, how long? Bless the fatherless!" The poor prostrate
ladies in the further cabin added their moanings to that dreadful wail,
and you may guess that no very cheerful company were gathered in that
dim saloon. Of course they would have been swamped had not the skylights
been covered in, and the low light was oppressive. At six in the morning
the skipper came with a grin and beckoned Mr. Blair into the crew's
cabin.