Ferrier, Fullerton, Tom, lend a hand with the ladies."

A yell was heard above; the poor sick folk came out in piteously thin
wrappings, moaning as they walked, and all the company got on deck just
in time to see a big barque go barely clear.

The youngest girl fainted, and Marion Dearsley attended to her with a
steady coolness that earned the admiration of her assistant--the doctor.
The serried ranks of the wreaths ceased to pour on, and the worn-out
landsfolk went below.

Right on into the next night the unwearied gale blew; significant lumps
of wreckage drifted past the schooner, and two floating batches of
fish-boxes hinted at mischief. The frightful sea made it well-nigh
impossible for those below to lie down with any comfort; they hardly had
the seaman's knack of saving themselves from muscular strain, and they
simply endured their misery as best they could. The yelling of wind and
the volleying of tortured water made general conversation impossible;
but Tom went from one lady to another and uttered ear-splitting howls
with a view of cheering the poor things up. Indeed, he once described
the predicament as distinctly fahscinating, but this example of poetic
license was too much even for Thomas, and he withdrew his remark in the
most parliamentary manner. Ferrier was more useful; his resolute,
cheerful air, the curt, brisk coolness of his chance remarks, were
exactly what were wanted to reassure women, and he did much to make the
dreary day pass tolerably. His services as waiter-general were admirably
performed, and he really did more by resolute helpfulness than could
have been done by any quantity of exhortation. He ventured to take a
long view at sundown, and he found the experience saddening. The
enormous chequered floor of the sea divided with turbulent sweep two