The wind had died away, but the rain continued, torrential in its downpour, and the mountains grumbled with dying thunder.

The town was blotted out, and fifty feet ahead of the hissing nose of the launch Alan could see only a gray wall.

Water ran in streams from his rubber slicker, and Olaf's great beard was dripping like a wet rag.

He was like a huge gargoyle at the wheel, and in the face of impenetrable gloom he opened speed until the _Norden_ was shooting with the swiftness of a torpedo through the sea.
In Olaf's cabin Alan had listened to the folly of expecting to find Mary Standish.

Between Eyak River and Katalla was a mainland of battered reefs and rocks and an archipelago of islands in which a pirate fleet might have found a hundred hiding-places.