THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
After a short rest he manœuvered around the starboard end, into the teeth of the storm again … and paused, doubting his eyes.
A dozen feet away was a woman in white. She lay against the deck-house, wind-driven, her arms wound around the hand-rail. Her tawny hair was blowing straight out behind her, though many strands of it seemed glued to the white panels. She had the appearance of one of those Italian bas-reliefs, for every line of her body was drawn clearly under the soaking, clinging linen. A witch, a mermaid, or a good old Irish banshee! Evidently she dared not let go.
Sea after sea broke forward. The infernal mingling of titanic noises—the snapping of canvas, the roaring ventilators, the doors forward and aft banging monotonously, the rumbling of the steam, the convulsive creaking shudder of the ship as the screws flung themselves free of the water, and the immensity of that great, humming m-m-m-m!—it was hell without brimstone.
The only thing that saved the girl from suffocation was the projection of the middle saloon. This broke the density and volume of the waves. Nevertheless, sheet after sheet slapped against her body resoundingly. She had probably come out for a forgotten book or rug, he thought. The little fool!
"Creep back, and don't let go that hand-rail! Do just as I tell you!" he yelled; but the gale drove the words back into his throat. The bellow of a Cyclops would not have reached the girl's
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