it were on the verge of falling. He gazed intently into the appalling shadowy corners. He alone in the forecastle was awake. The others were too stupefied to be aroused by such mundane things as storms.
The wind shrieked as though all the discord of the universe had been released at once. It drowned out every natural sound, and yet almost like a dream-echo, above the chaos there came a cry, a human cry as though someone were being mangled by the fearful noise.
Guy sprang to his feet. In a moment he was on deck. By the feeble light which filtered up from the forecastle lamp, he beheld Jolly Cauldron choking little Wu, the Chinese cook. As his great fingers closed convulsively on the yellow scrawny throat, Jolly Cauldron was singing a frightful threnody of gloom.
"You see, Mr. Wu," he said, "at your funeral there is music, although I apologize for the absence of flowers. However, in a few moments you will be able to twine some flora of the sea into your queue; for I am going to show you the way to the gardens of the sea."
Perhaps it was the wildness of the night which made Guy Sellers cast all caution to the winds, but whatever the cause, he sprang at Jolly Cauldron with such force that by the impact Wu was released from the relentless grip. However, it was only for a moment that Guy had the upper hand. Against the power of Jolly Cauldron he was impotent. In less than a moment he was lying half dazed on the deck as a result of a ponderous blow on the mouth, completely subdued. Jolly Cauldron stood over him and grinned.
"Under the circumstances, dog," he Said, "I guess I'd better put you back into your kennel."
While speaking he walked over and (opened the forward hatch; then with supreme ease he lifted Guy up in his arms and flung him down into that yawning pit of blackness which was the hold.
For a long time Guy lay scarcely conscious. His head ached dully from the thud of his fall. His mind was confused. He could not remember things clearly. Where was it he had fallen from? And where was it he had fallen to? He was on the verge of delirium.
Then, without warning, there came a deafening crash, accompanied by a ripping, snapping pandemonium as though the old vessel were being torn to pieces by ruthless giants of the sea. Although Guy was lying flat on his back in the pitch-black hold, at the dreadful impact he rolled more than a dozen feet as if he had been a hogshead. The ship moaned and groaned in every beam. Huge rats ran over him in screeching hordes. They swept past him like armies plunging into battle; although that is not strictly true, for they were wild with terror, more like a vanquished army in ignominious flight. They paid no more attention to him than if he had been a block of wood as they scrambled screeching horribly over his body. He threw up his arm to keep their cold, dank feet from gouging out his eyes. He made no effort otherwise to escape them, for escape was impossible. With preterhuman instinct, the rats were fleeing from a doomed ship. The old vessel was grappling and groveling in the agony of death. "The Isle of Lost Ships" was ominously calling to her. Every board vibrated with the intensity of her motion; for a ship has a personality, a soul, as surely as a human being. And now she was dying, though not without a gallant fight against death.
Guy was fully conscious now. The shock had swung him back into complete rationality. His brain worked doubly fast, as though striving to make up for its pre-
