these series of misfortunes. All were apprehensive of worse to
come, and this was especially true of the seamen who recalled all
sorts of terrible omens and warnings that had occurred during the
early part of the voyage, and which they could now clearly translate
into the precursors of some grim and terrible tragedy to come.

Nor did the croakers have long to wait. The second night after
the drowning of the mate the little yacht was suddenly wracked
from stem to stern. About one o'clock in the morning there was
a terrific impact that threw the slumbering guests and crew from
berth and bunk. A mighty shudder ran through the frail craft; she
lay far over to starboard; the engines stopped. For a moment she
hung there with her decks at an angle of forty-five degrees--then,
with a sullen, rending sound, she slipped back into the sea and
righted.

Instantly the men rushed upon deck, followed closely by the women.
Though the night was cloudy, there was little wind or sea, nor was
it so dark but that just off the port bow a black mass could be
discerned floating low in the water.

"A derelict," was the terse explanation of the officer of the watch.

Presently the engineer hurried on deck in search of the captain.

"That patch we put on the cylinder head's blown out, sir," he
reported, "and she's makin' water fast for'ard on the port bow."

An instant later a seaman rushed up from below.