fresh strength every moment, and it became abundantly evident that
the floating light would have her anchors and cables tested pretty
severely before the gale was over.

About eight o'clock in the evening the wind shifted to
east-south-east; and at ten it became what seamen term a hard gale,
rendering it necessary to veer out about fifty additional fathoms of
the hempen cable. The gale still increasing, the ship rolled and
laboured excessively, and at midnight eighty fathoms more were veered
out, while the sea continued to strike the vessel with a degree of
force that no one had before experienced.

That night there was little rest on board the _Pharos_. Everyone who
has been "at sea" knows what it is to lie in one's berth on a stormy
night, with the planks of the deck only a few inches from one's nose,
and the water swashing past the little port that _always_ leaks; the
seas striking against the ship; the heavy sprays falling on the
decks; and the constant rattle and row of blocks, spars, and cordage
overhead. But all this was as nothing compared with the state of
things on board the floating light, for that vessel could not rise to
the seas with the comparatively free motions of a ship, sailing
either with or against the gale. She tugged and strained at her
cable, as if with the fixed determination of breaking it, and she
offered all the opposition of a fixed body to the seas.

Daylight, though ardently longed for, brought no relief. The gale
continued with unabated violence. The sea struck so hard upon the
vessel's bows that it rose in great quantities, or, as Ruby expressed
it, in "green seas", which completely swept the deck as far aft as
the quarter-deck, and not unfrequently went completely over the stern