John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant.

Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck.With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given.

To compare her speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below the truth. The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to theirs.

Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these mountains of water which rose behind her. The passengers were often bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically.

Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm.

As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme. Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from the north-west.

The passengers were often bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm.

As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme.

Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves, shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence.

At night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings.

He thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, “I think, your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the coast.”

“I think so too.” “Ah!” said the pilot. “But which one?” “I know of but one,” returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly. “And that is—” “Shanghai.” The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely realise so much determination and tenacity.

Then he cried, “Well—yes! Your honour is right. To Shanghai!” So the Tankadere kept steadily on her northward track. The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did not founder.

Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from the violence of the waves. Day reappeared.

John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant.

Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck. The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o’clock. With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given.

To compare her speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below the truth. The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit management of the pilot saved her.

The passengers were often bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme.

Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves, shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence.

At night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings. He thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, “I think, your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the coast.”

“I think so too.” “Ah!” said the pilot. “But which one?” “I know of but one,” returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly. “And that is—” “Shanghai.” The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely realise so much determination and tenacity.

Then he cried, “Well—yes! Your honour is right. To Shanghai!” So the Tankadere kept steadily on her northward track. The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from the violence of the waves. Day reappeared.