was dark, and the watch was drowsy. So she escaped detection as she climbed aboard. She selected a seat in the prow of the port lifeboat, pulled the tarpaulin over her head, and, exhausted, fell asleep.
Captain Harve was uneasy. Nothing in the world meant quite so much to him as that godchild of his. It was indeed a pretty kettle of fish. Back and forth through the narrow quarters of his room he paced, puffing forth great clouds of smoke like an ocean liner's funnels.
At six bells he picked up his "warsack" and left the place with Dick, whom he had already "signed up." The wind had freshened, the moon had now completely vanished be hind the storm-clouds scudding across the sky, and before he reached the wharf, vast sheets of rain and spate from off the harbour drove at his face. The sea was running high, and the North Star rose and fell on the tide, to the incessant crunching of the piles of the wharf, the creaking of her own gear and tackle, and the singing of the wind through the shrouds.
He climbed aboard, and, as he was making his way aft, the lightning made town, and wharf, and ships, and sea, clear and distinct in a sort of ghostly twilight. Not in his memory could he recall so continuous an electric storm.
In the shelter of the lifeboat a huddling bundle turned over, revealing a face—in the weird twilight the features seemed those of a child who had sobbed itself to sleep.
Darkness and rain again, then another flash, and he saw who it was.
