But Roy was soon to find that the captain’s favor, like success, could be gained by no royal road. It was true that the captain’s feeling toward Roy was perhaps altered somewhat, but not nearly so much as Roy either hoped or at first believed. The captain treated him less coldly than before, but there was nothing like cordiality in his manner toward Roy. Distinctly the captain’s attitude was like that of the man from Missouri. He still wanted to be shown.

It was a long time before Roy grasped the idea that the captain was still skeptical concerning the desirability of wireless. But as time and distance from the Merrimack incident gave him a saner view of the affair, he came to understand the captain’s point of view. That was that though Roy had possibly been helpful in averting a collision, it did not by any means follow that if Roy had not been aboard a collision would have occurred. The men on the bridge plainly heard the Merrimack’s whistle. They knew she was near and coming closer. They were straining every nerve and sense to prevent an accident. All that Roy had told them that they did not already know was the fact that the Merrimack was within two thousand feet. And they might have guessed even that. When Roy, after much deliberation, had reasoned this out for himself, he saw his own part in a new light. It seemed to him now very commonplace and inconsequential. Perhaps he now erred as much in this new opinion as previously he had erred in overestimating his accomplishment.

But at any rate his new point of view helped him. More and more, as he saw new crises arising, now over delays in loading, now over breaks in machinery or equipment, now through storms or other superhuman causes, and saw the captain rise superior to one after another of these obstacles, he got his true bearings. He understood what a really insignificant place he occupied. For thirty years the captain had wrestled, and wrestled triumphantly, with every form of obstacle known to the mariner, while he, Roy, had sailed the seas hardly more than thirty days and knew nothing of the thousand difficulties of navigation.

It was fortunate indeed for Roy that he could thus come to understand his true situation. It prevented him, on the one hand, from becoming conceited, and so ruining his chances of ever getting ahead; and, on the other hand, it kept him from growing sullen and becoming indifferent in his work. And while it could hardly have been called encouraging, it was far from being discouraging. For Roy’s entire experience of life made him believe firmly that if he worked hard enough and used his brains along with his hands, nothing could keep him from succeeding. The net result of all his cogitations, therefore, was to make him grit his teeth the tighter and vow in his heart that nothing should prevent him from winning out. He would do perfectly every task that could possibly be required of him.

Week after week went by with no noticeable alteration in the captain’s attitude toward Roy. The captain spoke to him politely but without cordiality. He never came to the wireless house and he never invited Roy to the bridge, or the wheel-house, or his own cabin. He sent no messages other than those required by his work. He never asked for weather-reports or storm warnings, or the nightly news-letter, though Roy unfailingly laid these before the captain. But whether the latter welcomed them or took any interest in them Roy could not discover.

All the while Roy continued to pick up useful information. He got acquainted with every member of the crew. He learned exactly how a ship is coaled and how the coal is stored in the bunkers. Often he visited the fire-room and the water-tenders explained to him exactly how fires should be handled. He watched the crew load and unload the ship and soon found that if the cargo was to be stowed in such a manner that it would not shift in a storm and endanger the ship, it must be packed with fine skill. Harder than ever he tried to make himself agreeable to the passengers, for he bore ever in mind the fact that it was his duty to get as much business for the company as he could.

Meantime, Roy matured rapidly. All his pleasing frankness and his jolly good nature he retained. More and more he grew dependable. Before many weeks passed everybody aboard the Lycoming, from the captain down, understood that if Roy said he would do a thing or if he were ordered to do a thing, that thing would be done, and done promptly and well. Roy hardly realized what a reputation he had gained. And even if he had, it is hardly likely that he would have appreciated the full importance of such a reputation. Though he knew in his heart that any real success must be based on just such a reputation for trustworthiness, he was constantly on the lookout for an opportunity to prove his merit in ways more striking. The opportunity came to Roy far sooner than he ever believed it would and in a way it would have terrified him to contemplate, could he have foreseen all that lay before him.

Early September found Roy on his last voyage aboard the Lycoming. At least he believed it to be his last. The three months’ period during which a possible successor was being prepared for his position was almost at an end. The captain had given no indication that he thought more highly of Roy or that he desired him to continue at his post. Neither had he ever mentioned, after their first interview, the probability of a successor for Roy. But Roy understood that he would not. The new man would simply come aboard and Roy would be told to report to the Marconi office. What would happen to him then he did not know. He hated to think of the day when this would happen, for it might mean the end of his career as a Marconi operator. More than that, it would certainly mean an end to his relations with the purser and the first mate and all the other friends who had been so good to him on the Lycoming, and of whom he had become so fond. So it was with a rather heavy heart that he put to sea early in September on what he believed would be his very last trip aboard the Lycoming. It was hard to keep a stiff upper lip and to continue smiling. But Roy took a grip on himself and made the effort.

Apparently the journey was to be as uneventful as the last few trips had been. Two days passed without incident. Then the barometer began to fall. Roy did not know that, but he had grown sufficiently weather-wise to know that a storm was brewing. At first he thought little of it. The captain’s face, as usual, was inscrutable, but Mr. Young looked sober. When Roy noticed that he began to feel concerned. Then he remembered that it was the ninth of September—the very period of the year when the worst storms visit the Gulf.

The Lycoming was already far down the Florida coast. The Bahama Islands were just ahead. The passage between Palm Beach and the Great Bahama Island was hardly sixty miles wide—a mere nothing in a storm, should anything go wrong. Only a few hours distant were the Florida Straits, with their treacherous currents and their far-flung string of keys, like a chain to catch the unwary mariner, with Key West like a pendant at the end of the chain, and the Dry Tortugas still farther west. Perilous indeed would be the position of any ship overtaken thereabout by a hurricane.

Roy inspected his apparatus, made sure his telephone was in working order, and got ready for an emergency. Late in the day Roy went on the bridge to talk to Mr. Young, who was in command. Already there were signs of the coming storm. The wind was soughing ominously and rising steadily. The sea was beginning to heave. The Lycoming rolled unsteadily. Roy thanked his lucky stars that he had gotten his sea-legs and could stand rough weather without being seasick. He might be needed and he wanted to be fit if he were.

“What do you think of it?” asked Roy.

“Looks bad to me,” said the first officer. “The barometer is falling fast. Something is sure to come out of it. And now’s just the time of year when the worst storms hit the Gulf. If we can get past the Dry Tortugas before it strikes us, we’ll be all right. We’ll have the entire Gulf before us then.”

“What does the captain think of it?” inquired Roy.

“He never says much about what he thinks,” replied the big mate, “but he’s had his eye on the barometer all the forenoon, and he’s asleep now, so it’s evident what he thinks.”

“You mean he thinks there’s nothing to worry about?”

“I mean just the contrary. If we do have a bad storm, the captain will be out here on the bridge until it’s over or until he can’t stand any longer, and he’s resting up.”

Roy returned to the wireless house, feeling vaguely uneasy.

Palm Beach was passed early in the afternoon. Roy saw that even at her best speed the Lycoming could hardly reach the Straits before midnight, and it would be close to ten hours more before they were safely past the Dry Tortugas. Twenty hours must elapse before they were through the danger zone and had the wide Gulf before them. He hoped that the storm would hold off that length of time.

Sunset saw little change in the weather. Wind and wave were far from boisterous. The thing that troubled the first officer was the way in which the barometer still fell steadily. Late in the day he gave an order to make everything fast. Roy, chancing to come out of the wireless house, saw sailors below battening down hatches, lashing every movable object fast, and otherwise making things tight. He had never seen that done before. At supper Roy noticed that the waiters were serious and preoccupied. Somehow a distinct air of apprehension seemed to be abroad. And yet there was nothing to be alarmed at excepting the steady fall of the barometer.

Roy went directly from the supper table to his instrument and began searching the seas for ships. The atmosphere played all sorts of tricks with his wireless. One minute he could hear nothing and the next he would catch part of a message from New York. He got into touch with the Mallory liner Comal. She was anchored at Key West. He heard the steamer Valbanera and talked with her. She was off Havana. A terrible storm was raging there and the ship’s master was afraid to try to enter the harbor. So he had put to sea again. Once Roy heard a message sent by the Empress to some other ship. The Empress had left Havana for Galveston, a new schedule having gone into effect.

“The captain will see his brother this voyage,” thought Roy. “It will be a happy trip for him.”

He tried to reach the Empress, but call as he would, he could get no response. He talked with a number of shore stations, but there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary to report. The sea was not very rough and the chances of getting nicely through the Straits seemed good. Yet Roy could not help feeling apprehensive and depressed. He knew the Gulf was in a tumult off Havana. Could he have seen the barometer and the sober face of Captain Lansford, who had now taken command, he would have known there was good cause to feel apprehensive.

Just when the storm struck the Lycoming, Roy never knew. Hour after hour he stuck to the wireless house, now listening in, now calling, calling for ships he knew ought to be within call, but which he could not reach. So intent was Roy upon his work that he did not hear the rising wind or notice the increasing violence of the waves, until suddenly the Lycoming staggered and heeled far over. The sudden lurch almost threw Roy out of his chair.

He pulled off his receivers and was instantly aware that the wind was shrieking about the wireless house with terrific force. The windows rattled, the door creaked under its pressure, and the entire superstructure of the ship seemed to shiver. He could hear the groaning of masts and derricks, of life-boats and rafts lashed to the deck, of a hundred objects here and there. He thanked providence the mate had had things made fast. The roll of the rain on the roof was like thunder. When Roy rose to his feet he found he could not stand without holding to something. At once he knew he had never been in such a storm as this. But it was not until he opened the door of the wireless house that he understood how violent the storm really was. The instant he turned the latch the door flew inward, striking him with great force. The wind rushed in with a deafening shriek and almost flung him on the floor. The rain beat in in torrents. The roar of the elements was beyond description. It was a deafening welter of sound. Like demons howling in agony the winds roared and shrieked. The rain beat a terrific monotone on deck and roof. The crests of the waves broke before the wind with a hissing roar like the thunder of a thousand Niagaras. The rigging rattled. Woodwork everywhere creaked and groaned. Stays and guy lines beat a very devil’s tattoo under the awful blasts. All about him, papers, despatches, records, clothes, were whirling like dust before a swirling wind. With all his might Roy strove to shut the door. He was not able to do it. Then an awful lurch of the ship flung the door violently shut and threw Roy against the opposite wall. His chair flew across the room with a crash. The remainder of the furniture was fastened to the floor.

Roy picked himself up, righted his chair, and attempted to collect the articles scattered by the wind. Now he realized how the sea had risen. Down, down, down, the ship seemed to go. It lifted as suddenly, sending Roy staggering against the wall. Now it lurched this way, now that. Never had he supposed a great ship could be pitched about as the Lycoming now was. Far to one side it tilted. As suddenly it shot far to the other side. Then it pitched forward. Now it seemed as though it was trying to stand on its stern. Suddenly it dipped sidewise, falling, falling, until Roy cried out in very fear. He was sure the ship was turning over. Nor was his the only heart that stood still with terror. White-faced the man in the pilot-house clung to his wheel.

“Great God!” he muttered. “A sixty-degree roll,” and waited breathless, like Roy, for the ship to right itself.

Down in the stewards’ quarters the negroes were gathered together with blanched faces, some praying, some moaning. Amid all this welter of wind and wave, Captain Lansford stood on the bridge, holding to the rail like grim death, the rain falling on his oilskins in torrents, the blasts tearing at his garments, as he peered through the blinding spray and listened to the tumult of the tempest, unmoved, immovable, a man of iron with a heart of steel, grappling with a tempest.

It was the thought of the captain that brought courage back to Roy. As the Lycoming hung for what seemed an age at that terrifying angle, Roy lost his grip on himself. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt physical terror. An awful fear gripped his soul. His heart actually stopped beating. The blood rushed from his cheeks till they were like chalk. He seemed paralyzed. He could not even cry out. He was completely unmanned. Death was so near at hand and the thought of it came so suddenly that it overpowered him. Then Roy thought of the captain. He knew he was out on the bridge. He knew he was facing the awful wind, the driving rain, the blinding spray, the danger of being washed overboard, and that there he would stand, hour after hour defying death and the elements to bring the Lycoming safe to port.

“Thank God for Captain Lansford!” cried Roy. “He’ll win through. He’ll bring us safe to port. He’s never failed yet. He won’t fail now. Thank God, Captain Lansford is in command.”

The color flew back into Roy’s cheeks. His heart began to pound bravely. His pulses beat with courage.

“We’ve got to help him, every one of us!” he cried aloud. “What can I do? What can I do?”

A still, small voice answered, “Your duty.”

“My duty,” said Roy aloud, “is right at that instrument. That’s my post as long as this storm lasts.”

He shoved his chair across the room, sat down at his desk, and clamped the receivers to his ears. He was just in time to catch a message. The United States Weather Bureau at New Orleans, seven hundred miles away, was sending out a storm warning to Louisiana coast towns and other places along the Gulf which the hurricane had not yet reached. “Tropical disturbance in southeastern Gulf moving northwest will cause increasing northeast winds.”

According to rule, Roy jotted down the time the message was received. It was just ten o’clock.

“I wonder if I should give this to the captain,” said Roy, with a grin. “He might like to know there’s going to be a storm.”

Then his face became sober enough and he settled to work. For long periods he listened for voices in the storm. Again and again he flashed out messages to ships that he thought should be near, but he could reach nobody. After a time he got an answer from the Comal, with which he had talked before. She was still fast to her moorings in Key West, but in imminent danger of being torn away. Even as Roy talked to her it happened.

“We’re loose,” flashed her operator to Roy, “and blowing ashore. I’ve got to stand by to send messages for the skipper. Good-bye. Good luck to you.”

There were tears in Roy’s eyes as he jotted down the message. “Wishing us good luck while he’s going perhaps to his death,” muttered Roy. “He’s a man—as every wireless operator ought to be.” And while he listened for other signals, he sent up a silent prayer that when the pinch came he would be equally brave.

Meantime the ship staggered on. With the stars blotted out, with the seas mounting higher and higher, with the wind blowing at hurricane force, it was impossible to tell what speed the ship was making, whether she was being blown far from her course, or where she was. Yet the captain must decide all these things and decide them right, if the Lycoming was to come through the storm in safety. The most hazardous part of her journey still lay ahead of her. It would be doubly hazardous now because the wind would be abeam when she turned west to pass through the Straits.

In the early hours of the morning the motion of the ship seemed to alter. For Roy, on the very top of the vessel, every movement was intensified. At once he was conscious of this altered motion. Before, her movements had been mostly violent forward plunges. Now she rolled fearfully from side to side. First she rolled far over to port. Then she dipped at a terrifying angle to starboard. Roy could not understand it. After a time it came to him that the ship was wallowing in the trough of the waves. Had something gone wrong? Had the steering-gear broken? Was the ship out of control and drifting toward land, even as the Comal had done? These and a hundred other questions Roy asked himself as he sat breathless at his operating table. Should he call the bridge to see if the captain wanted the SOS sounded? Small chance they would have of getting help in such a storm, Roy told himself, when it was all any ship could do to keep herself afloat, let alone help another. All the while Roy was conscious of the regular vibration of the ship’s engines. Presently it occurred to him that if the ship were unmanageable the engines would probably be stopped. Then he knew what was wrong. The ship had turned west. They were in the Straits. The waves were catching the Lycoming abeam. The pinch had come. Could the Lycoming survive it?

Hardly had Roy asked himself the question before there was an awful roar. With a noise like a thousand thunders a mighty sea struck the Lycoming broadside and poured over her decks. It was the first sea that had come aboard. By intuition Roy knew what had happened. His thoughts reverted to the day when he had expressed surprise, almost incredulity, at the purser’s statement that waves sometimes swept the deck. Thirty feet, the purser had said the waves sometimes rose. He wondered how high this one was. He knew it was a monster. He wondered what the sea looked like with waves like that. He wished it were day so he could see. Then he was glad it was not day. He was afraid he would be afraid. Whatever happened, he did not want to be a coward. The thought of the captain on the bridge heartened him. It was wonderful how the bare thought of that fearless man restored Roy’s courage.

On and on plunged the Lycoming, ploughing through cross-seas, wallowing between mighty waves, fighting her way through a welter of water such as Roy had never dreamed of. Hour by hour, the force of the wind increased. The seas mounted higher. The ship labored more heavily. Time and again great waves swept over her. Her bulwarks were smashed. Railings and woodwork were torn away. Iron stanchions were bent like wire. The bridge was battered. The waters clawed at her hull and the winds tore at her superstructure. But unflinching, unyielding, undaunted, gripping the rail with grasp of iron, the captain stood on the bridge, master of wave and wind.

Never had Roy welcomed daylight as he welcomed the dawn next morning. All night long he had sat at his instrument, waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment when he might be needed. A hundred times he had pictured the sea to himself; but his wildest picture was tame in comparison with the actual scene as revealed by the light of dawn. The confusion of the waters was beyond conception. Mountain high the seas were piling up. Under the awful blasts of wind they rushed forward like frenzied demons, frothing, seething, hissing, roaring, climbing up and up until the hurricane tore their tops away, flinging the spray like tropic rain in blinding sheets. Again and again Roy watched with bated breath as a monster wave bore down on the ship, rising higher and higher, until it plunged forward on the Lycoming with a crash, shaking the sturdy ship from stem to stern. The roar of the elements was deafening. Beyond all power of imagination, the tempest was awful.

Hour by hour the stanch vessel fought her way through the maelstrom. The wind tended ever to blow her toward the keys and shoals that menaced on the north, but the man on the bridge kept pointing her into the wind. No land was visible. Neither was the sun. It was impossible to take a reckoning and determine the ship’s position. Yet with that instinct born of years of experience, the captain allowed for the drift, gauged the ship’s speed, and kept her on her course. Noon should normally have seen her far past the Dry Tortugas. It was hours later when the Lycoming actually reached them. For a few minutes the rain ceased and the air cleared. Again and again the man on the bridge swept the horizon with his glasses. Finally he glimpsed land. That one glance told him all he wanted to know. He had seen a landmark on the Dry Tortugas. He knew he was only slightly off his course. At once he rectified his position. The wide Gulf was now before him and, barring accident, he knew he should come through safely. But he was traveling with the hurricane. He did not run through it, but advanced with it. So the storm continued hour after hour without abatement.

Late in the day, Roy sought food. If he had thought the storm terrible, within the shelter of the wireless house, he had no words to describe it now as he stood in the open, exposed to the elements. Clutching the rail with all his strength, bending low before the gale, Roy advanced foot by foot. He was almost afraid to go down the ladder lest he be pitched headlong into the hissing seas. A step at a time he descended, hugging the ladder tenaciously. Then, crouching close to the superstructure of the ship, he fought his way against an awful wind until he reached a door. In another second he was inside, trembling all over from the violence of his efforts and his close contact with the storm. When he remembered that for twenty hours the captain had stood on the bridge, facing that awful wind and those crashing seas, he was speechless with admiration. It was more than admiration. It was almost worship. A burning desire came into his heart to do something in return for the captain.

Roy got some food and the steward provided him with a little bag of provisions so that he need not leave the wireless house again until the storm was over. Then Roy crept back up the ladder and flung himself on his bed.

He slept for hours. During that time the ship staggered on. All day and all night the hurricane raged, and all the next day and the next night. For forty-eight hours Captain Lansford never left the bridge. Then, utterly exhausted, he staggered to his cabin and dropped asleep, while Mr. Young took command. For twenty-four hours the captain lay like one dead. Then he returned to the bridge and again took command. During all that time the storm continued without abatement. The seas climbed higher every hour under the terrific lashing of the tempest.

Roy spent long hours at his post. Indeed, he hardly laid aside his receivers except when he snatched a little sleep. He got into touch with the Comal again and learned that she had been beached by the wind, but that no one was hurt. The British oil tanker Tonawanda had been scuttled to save the Comal. The steamer Grampus and the schooner E. V. Drew had gone down in the harbor, while Key West itself was prostrated. Three hundred and twenty houses, together with stores, churches, and other buildings had been demolished. The wind had reached a velocity of 110 miles an hour. From other stations Roy learned of other damage. The town of Gould was virtually razed. The wireless station at Fort Taylor was wrecked. Towns all along the eastern Gulf shore were badly damaged by the awful wind. When Roy learned that the Valbanera had gone down with all on board, his face was very sober indeed. But for Captain Lansford, thought Roy, the Lycoming, too, might now be somewhere on the bottom of the Gulf.

Another day passed. The hurricane blew with undiminished force. With every hour of wind the seas grew higher. But the Lycoming weathered both wind and wave. She was drawing near her destination. Her harbor was not many hours distant. But could she make it? Would she dare try to run between those walls of stone in such a sea? Would she not have to put back into the open Gulf, like the Valbanera, and try to ride out the storm? These and a hundred other questions Roy asked himself when he realized that the Lycoming was drawing near to Galveston. Then he thought of the sea-wall and felt thankful it was there. If the Lycoming had withstood the tempest, he felt sure the sea-wall had, too. He shuddered to think what would have happened had there been no sea-wall.

All the time Roy was working with his instruments, trying to pick up news, listening for voices in the air. Again and again he had tried to get into touch with Galveston, but in vain. It was not until the middle of the afternoon that he finally reached the Marconi man there. It was late Saturday afternoon. The Galveston operator said the storm was then at its worst. The sea was beating furiously at the sea-wall. The wind was blowing nearly seventy miles an hour. The barometer was way below thirty. But the city was safe. He did not believe it would be wise to attempt to enter the harbor with such a sea running.

“Another night of it,” groaned Roy to himself, as the Galveston man flashed good-bye. “I hope I never see another storm like this. I’ll have to give this news to the captain.”

Roy laid aside his receivers and picked up his telephone. His signal was answered by the captain.

“Galveston man says storm at its height there now,” telephoned Roy. “Does not think it safe to try to enter harbor. Seventy-mile wind blowing.”

There was no reply. The captain had turned away from the telephone in anger. He was the judge of whether to enter the harbor or not, and not some landlubber sitting where he couldn’t even see the water.

Roy adjusted his receivers again. Hardly were they in place before a sound crackled in his ears, “SOS—SOS—SOS.”

It galvanized Roy into action. The blood surged through his heart. With eager, trembling fingers he flung back a reply.

“Who are you? I have your signal of distress.”

For what seemed an age he waited for an answer. Outside, the wind was howling like a pack of demons. The wireless house shook and trembled under its awful blasts. The ship plunged from side to side. Roy clung to his table as he sat, tense and rigid, waiting for a reply.

“Who are you?” he flashed again. “I have your signal of distress.”

Again he waited. Would the wireless play him false at such a critical minute? Were the atmospherics to trick him again?

Then it came. “Steamer Empress, Rudder broken. Drifting helpless.”

“Where are you?” flashed back Roy. “What is your latitude and longitude?”

Crash! Bang! A terrible sea swept over the Lycoming. She heeled far over. Something had given way. Something was wrong with his wireless. Trembling, Roy ran to his door and peered out. His aerial was gone. It might take hours perhaps to rig a new one, even if he could get it up in the gale. What should he do? He must get the Empress’ reply. Roy leaped to the deck. The broken lead-in wire was whipping in the wind. Quick as thought, he snatched it up and ran back into the wireless house with it. He scraped the insulation from the broken end and dived under his couch. In a second he had attached the end of the wire to the couch spring. In another he was back at his table, receivers clamped to his head. Tense, breathless, rigid, he listened. Would it work? Could he hear?

Then it came. “Latitude 28. Longitude 96.”

That was all he needed. Throwing his receivers aside, Roy picked up his telephone. Again he signaled the bridge. There was no response. He signaled sharply. No answer came. Again and again Roy tried to get the captain. The telephone was silent. Either it had been broken or the captain had been washed away by the awful sea that had struck the ship. In either case there was nothing to do but take the message to the bridge himself. Roy leaped to his feet and ran out of the wireless house, utterly forgetful of wind and wave. Slipping, scrambling, clutching rails and stanchions, Roy fought his way forward. There was but one thought in his mind—to get the news to the captain. The latter was still at his post, though the bridge rail was partly gone and the wheel-house was stove in. The telephone apparatus was smashed beyond recognition. Putting his mouth to the captain’s ear, Roy shouted, “Steamer Empress drifting with broken rudder. Latitude 28; longitude 96.”

The captain looked at him incredulously.

“She left Havana before her usual time,” shouted Roy. “New schedule.”

For a single instant Captain Lansford bent his piercing eyes on Roy. “Stand by to send a message,” he roared. Then he sprang for the chart house.