t he must have gone half an hour ago."

He was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they
had seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the
trysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below
again, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near
him, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry
for a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in
again, and we were three on deck.

Nobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a
funeral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a
man's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen
think it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their
fathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the
funeral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in
that something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,
between two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach
than if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped
breathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back
to us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and
you may think what you like.

Jack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I
don't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck
four hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his
sou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that
he would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it
was some consolation to him to get that ray of light when
everything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a
southerly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and
tub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh
water for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I
went and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I
could tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in
the dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black
rain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of
the port light on the water when she went off and rolled to
leeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour
we should be under way again. I was still standing there when
Jack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.
The rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet
beard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he
stooped