Millner's" helm was unshipped.

There was no more sleep for any one on board that night. Wilbur
tramped the quarterdeck, sick with a feeling he dared not put a
name to. Moran sat by the wrecked rudder-head, a useless pistol
in her hand, swearing under her breath from time to time. Charlie
appeared on the quarterdeck at intervals, looked at Wilbur and
Moran with wide-open eyes, and then took himself away. On the
forward deck the coolies pasted strips of red paper inscribed with
mottoes upon the mast, and filled the air with the reek of their
joss-sticks.

"If one could only SEE what it was," growled Moran between her
clinched teeth. "But this--this damned heaving and trembling, it--
it's queer."

"That's it, that's it," said Wilbur quickly, facing her. "What
are we going to do, Moran?"

"STICK IT OUT!" she exclaimed, striking her knee with her fist.
"We can't leave the schooner--I WON'T leave her. I'll stay by
this dough-dish as long as two planks in her hold together. Were
you thinking of cutting away?" She fixed him with her frown.

Wilbur looked at her, sitting erect by the disabled rudder, her
head bare, her braids of yellow hair hanging over her breast,
sitting there in man's clothes and man's boots, the pistol at her
side. He shook his head.

"I'm not leaving the 'Bertha' till you do," he answered; adding: