"Shall we go down, do you think?" asked Billy, shivering in spite of
himself, as a huge wave towered above them as if it would engulf the
polar ship, and then as she rose gallantly to its threatening bulk,
went careening away to leeward as if angry at being cheated of its
prey.

"We can only hope for the best," said a voice at his elbow. It was
Captain Hazzard. "I have implicit confidence in Captain Barrington. He
is a sailor of rare mettle."

These remarks were shouted at the top of the two speakers' voices, but
they sounded, in the midst of the turbulent uproar that raged about
them, like the merest whispers.

Time and again it seemed that one of the great waves that came
sweeping out of the darkness must engulf them, but so far the Southern
Cross rode them like a race-horse, rising pluckily to them as they
rushed at her. Captain Barrington and his officers were trying to get
some headsail put on the vessel to keep her head up to the huge waves,
but they were unwilling to imperil any one's life by ordering him out
on the plunging bowsprit, that was now reared heavenward and again
plunged downward as if pointing to the bottom of the sea.

Ben Stubbs it was who finally volunteered to crawl out, and two other
American seamen followed him. They succeeded, although in deadly peril
half a dozen times, in getting the jib gaskets cast loose, and then
crawled back half frozen to receive the warm plaudits of the officers
and more substantial rewards later on. With her jib hoisted, the
Southern Cross made better weather of it, but the seas were fast
becoming more mountainous and threatening. The wind screeched through