Hamerton carefully observed its effect upon the sensitive needle of the liquid compass. "Twelve degrees out, at least," exclaimed Detroit. "And goodness only knows how long it has been like that. Perhaps before the yacht was hove-to perhaps even when we passed Norderney Gat." "Well, we've a good offing, so there's little harm done. The wind is falling some, and if only this tarnation rain would quit——" "What's that?" interrupted Hamerton, holding up his hand. "Nothing, I guess," replied Detroit, after a few moments. "What's the matter with your nerves?" "There's nothing the matter with my nerves," asserted the Sub with asperity. "Feel my pulse. But I could swear I heard a fellow calling out, 'Who goes there?' in German." Detroit chuckled. "Guess I'll have to take your word for it," he said. "I'll git. It's time I made some coffee." The Sub watched his companion descend into the cosy cabin and strip off his glistening oilskins. Then, to avoid the glare, he closed the sliding hatch, and peered steadfastly into the mirky night. The rain was coming down with torrential violence. The wind had died utterly away, and the saturated sails were slatting violently from side to side with the motion of the craft. Beyond the patter of the heavy raindrops, no sound came from the black vault that encompassed the Diomeda on every side. "If only I could pick up a light!" he muttered; then, mainly with the idea of doing something, he picked up the coiled lead-line. "Five fathoms, by Jupiter!" he exclaimed; then, seized by an inspiration, he dived into the cabin and bent over the chart. According to the course the minimum depth ought to be thirteen. "We've muddled the whole show, Oswald," he announced. "We're inside the five-fathom line, and that means we are only a few miles from shore. I'll put her due west, and see what comes of that. There's enough wind now to give her steerage way." "Couldn't do better," replied Detroit laconically, "unless it's to have some coffee and a few rusks. I'll be slick about it."
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