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“Keep the wind as much on the port quarter as you dare,” ordered Swarth. “We’re simply sailing around the center, and perhaps in with the vortex.”

They obeyed him as they could, and in a few hours more there was less fury in the blast and a slight rise in the barometer.

“I was right,” said the captain. “The center will pass us now. We’re out of its way.”

They brought the brig around amid a crashing of seas over the port rail, and stowing the staysail, pinned her again on the port tack with the tarpaulin. But a few hours of it brought an increase of wind and a fall of the barometer.

“What in d–nation does it mean, Angel?” cried the captain, desperately. “By all laws of storms we ought to drift away from the center.”

The mate could not tell; but a voice out of the night, barely distinguishable above the shrieking wind, answered him.

“You–all-fired–fool–don’t–you–know–any–more–than–to–heave–to –in–the–Gulf–Stream?”

Then there was the faintest disturbance in the sounds of the sea, indicating the rushing by of a large craft.

“What!” roared Swarth. “The Gulf Stream? I’ve lost my reckoning. Where am I? Ship ahoy! Where am I?”

There was no answer, and he stumbled down to the main-deck among his men, followed by the mate.

“Draw a bucket of water, one of you,” he ordered.

This was done, and he immersed his hand. The water was warm.

“Gulf-Stream,” he yelled frantically, “Gulf Stream–how in h—-l did we get up here? We ought to be down near St. Helena. Angel, come here. Let’s think. We sailed by the wind on the southeast trade for–no, we didn’t. It was the northeast trade. We caught the northeast trade, and we’ve circled all over the Western Ocean.”

“You’re a bully full-rigged navigator, you are,” came the sneering, rasping voice of Tom Plate from the crowd. “Why didn’t you drop your hook at Barbados, and give us a chance for our eyes?”

The captain lunged toward him on the reeling deck; but Tom moved on.

“Your time is coming, Tom Plate,” he shouted insanely; then he climbed to the poop, and when he had studied the situation awhile, called his bewildered mate up to him.

“We were blown out of the north entrance o’ the bay, Angel, instead of the south, as we thought. I was fooled by the soundings. At this time o’ the year Barbados is about on the thermal equator–half-way between the trades. This is a West India cyclone, and we’re somewhere around Hatteras. No wonder the port tack drifted us into the center. Storms revolve against the sun north o’ the line, and with the sun south of it. Oh, I’m the two ends and the bight of a d–d fool! Wear ship!” he added in a thundering roar.

They put the brig on the starboard tack, and took hourly soundings with the deep-sea lead. As they hauled it in for the fourth time, the men called that the water was cold; and on the next sounding the lead reached bottom at ninety fathoms.

“We’re inside the Stream and the hundred-fathom curve, Angel. The barometer’s rising now. The storm-center’s leaving us, and we’re drifting ashore,” said the captain. “I know pretty well where I am. These storms follow an invariable track, and I judge the center is to the east of us, moving north. That’s why we didn’t run into it when we thought we were dodging it. We’ll square away with the wind on the starboard quarter now, and if we pick up the Stream and the glass don’t rise, I’ll be satisfied to turn in. I’m about fagged out.”

“It’s too much for me, Bill,” answered Mr. Todd, wearily. “I can navigate; but this ain’t navigation. This is blindman’s-buff.”

But he set the head-sail for his captain, and again the brig fled before the wind. Only once did they round to for soundings, and this time found no bottom; so they squared away, and when, a few hours later, the seas came aboard warm, Swarth was confident enough of his position to allow his mind to dwell on pettier details of his business.