It was gloomy weather; dead head wind, blowing quite half a gale; the _Ferndale_ under reduced sail was stretching close-hauled across the track of the homeward bound ships, just moving through the water and no more, since there was no object in pressing her and the weather looked threatening.

About ten o'clock at night he was alone on the poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the weather rail and staring to windward, when amongst the white, breaking seas, under the black sky, he made out the lights of a ship.

He watched them for some time.

She was running dead before the wind of course.

She will pass jolly close--he said to himself; and then suddenly he felt a great mistrust of that approaching ship.