h is not of this earth. The bench still
heaved, and there was a new smell of sour pickles. I think a jar had
upset in a store cupboard. Perhaps I should feel happier in the
wheel-house. It was certain the wheel-house would not smell of vinegar,
boots, and engine oil. It would have its own disadvantages--it would be
cold and damp--and the wind and seas on the lively deck had to be faced
on the way to it. The difficulty there is in placing the second course
on London's cosy dinner-tables began to surprise me.

Our wooden shelter, the wheel-house, is ten feet above the deck, with
windows through which I could look at the night, and imagine the rest. I
had, to support me, the mono-syllabic skipper and a helmsman with nothing
to say. I saw one of them when, drawing hard on his pipe, its glow
outlined a bodyless face. The wheel chains rattled in their channels.
There was a clang when a sea wrenched the rudder. I clung to a
window-strap, flung back to look upwards through a window which the ship
abruptly placed above my head, then thrown forward to see wreaths of
water speeding below like ghosts. The stars jolted back and forth in
wide arcs. There were explosions at the bows, and the ship trembled and
hesitated. Occasionally the skipper split the darkness with a rocket,
and we gazed round the night for an answer. The night had no answer to
give. We were probably nearing the North Pole. About midnight, the
silent helmsman put away his pipe, as a preliminary to answering a
foolish question of mine, and said, "Sometimes it happens. It's bound
to. You can see for ye'self. They're little things, these trawlers.
Just about last Christmas--wasn't it about Christmas-time, Skipper?--the
_Mavis_ left the fleet to go home. Boilers wrong. There was one of our
hands, Jim Budge, who was laid up, and he reckoned he'd better get home
quick. So he joined her. We were off the Tail of the Dogger, and it
blew that night. Next morning Jim's mate swore Jim's bunk had been laid
in. It was wet. He said the _Mavis_ had gone. I could see the bunk was
wet all right, but what are ventilators for? Chance it, the _Mavis_
never got home. A big sea to flood the engine-room, and there she goes."

5

After the next daybreak time stood still--or rather, I refused to note
its passage. For that morning I made out the skipper, drenched with
spray, and his eyes bloodshot, no doubt through weariness and the
weather, watching me from