Now something akin to repulsion came with the fanciful remembrance.
Long sullen undulations swept noiselessly past the ship.

Once, after a steady climb up a rolling hill of water, the _Sirdar_ quickly pecked at the succeeding valley, and the propeller gave a couple of angry flaps on the surface, whilst a tremor ran through the stout iron rails on which the girl's arms rested.
The crew were busy too.

Squads of Lascars raced about, industriously obedient to the short shrill whistling of jemadars and quartermasters.
Boat lashings were tested and tightened, canvas awnings stretched across the deck forward, ventilator cowls twisted to new angles, and hatches clamped down over the wooden gratings that covered the holds.
Officers, spotless in white linen, flitted quietly to and fro.

When the watch was changed.

Iris noted that the "chief" appeared in an old blue suit and carried oilskins over his arm as he climbed to the bridge.
Nature looked disturbed and fitful, and the ship responded to her mood.
There was a sense of preparation in the air, of coming ordeal, of restless foreboding.