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Virtue was soon on deck again, muffled up in his oilskins.

“Now, Watkins, you can go below and turn in.”

“I shan’t go below tonight, sir–not to lie down. There’s nothing much to do here, but I couldn’t sleep, if I did lie down.”

“Very well; you had better go below and get a glass of grog; tell the steward to give you a big pipe with a cover like this, out of the locker; and there’s plenty of chewing tobacco, if the men are short.”

“I will take that instead of a pipe,” Watkins said; “there’s nothing like a quid in weather like this, it aint never in your way, and it lasts. Even with a cover a pipe would soon be out.”

“Please yourself, Watkins; tell the two hands forward to keep a bright lookout for lights.”

The night passed slowly. Occasionally a sea heavier than usual came on board, curling over the bow and falling with a heavy thud on the deck, but for the most part the Seabird breasted the waves easily; the bowsprit had been reefed in to its fullest, thereby adding to the lightness and buoyancy of the boat. Tom Virtue did not go below when his friend came up to relieve him at the change of watch, but sat smoking and doing much talking in the short intervals between the gusts.

The morning broke gray and misty, driving sleet came along on the wind, and the horizon was closed in as by a dull curtain.

“How far can we see, do you think, Watkins?”

“Perhaps a couple of miles, sir.”

“That will be enough. I think we both know the position of every reef to within a hundred yards, so we will shape our course for Guernsey. If we happen to hit it off, we can hold on to St. Helier, but if when we think we ought to be within sight of Guernsey we see nothing of it, we must lie to again, till the storm has blown itself out or the clouds lift. It would never do to go groping our way along with such currents as run among the islands. Put the last reef in the trysail before you hoist it. I think you had better get the foresail down altogether, and run up the spitfire jib.”

The Seabird was soon under way again.

“Now, Watkins, you take the helm; we will go down and have a cup of hot coffee, and I will see that the steward has a good supply for you and the hands; but first, do you take the helm, Jack, whilst Watkins and I have a look at the chart, and try and work out where we are, and the course we had better lie for Guernsey.”

Five minutes were spent over the chart, then Watkins went above and Jack Harvey came below.

“You have got the coffee ready, I hope, Johnson?”

“Yes, sir, coffee and chocolate. I didn’t know which you would like.”

“Chocolate, by all means. Jack, I recommend the chocolate. Bring two full sized bowls, Johnson, and put that cold pie on the table, and a couple of knives and forks; never mind about a cloth; but first of all bring a couple of basins of hot water, we shall enjoy our food more after a wash.”

The early breakfast was eaten, dry coats and mufflers put on, pipes lighted, and they then went up upon deck. Tom took the helm.

“What time do you calculate we ought to make Guernsey, Tom?”

“About twelve. The wind is freer than it was, and we are walking along at a good pace. Matthews, cast the log, and let’s see what we are doing. About seven knots, I should say.”

“Seven and a quarter, sir,” the man said, when he checked the line.

“Not a bad guess, Tom; it’s always difficult to judge pace in a heavy sea.”

At eleven o’clock the mist ceased.

“That’s fortunate,” Tom Virtue said; “I shouldn’t be surprised if we get a glimpse of the sun between the clouds presently. Will you get my sextant and the chronometer up, Jack, and put them handy?”