men here, four of
them at the wheel. And my friend the Mate, in oilskins and sou'wester,
walking back and for'ard. I cry his name, but my voice is swept into
the void. He sees me, but does not speak, only walks to and fro. To
me, strung up to a tautness of sensation that almost frightens me,
this silence of the Mate is horrible. I feel a pain in my chest like
the pressure of a heavy weight as I look at him. And the four men toil
at the wheel, for the steering chains have been carried away.

Looking for'ard, I see on the well-deck the white wreckage of a boat,
and I begin to tremble with excitement. If the Mate would only speak!
A thought strikes me--that he will never speak to me again; then the
sea comes. As she rolls to starboard, the great wave lifts his head
and springs like a wild beast at the rail. A hoarse roar, a rending,
splitting sound of gear going adrift, and the sea strikes the poop
with terrific impact. Then the water soughs away through the scuppers.
And athwart the blackened sky there darts a dazzling flash of
lightning. As I hold to my stanchion, soaked to the skin, I watch the
wrath of God on the face of the waters.

Making a rush, I gain the shelter of the canvas screen round the cabin
companion, and I bump into the Innovation. From beneath the dripping
sou'wester his small, keen face peers up at me, and he utters his
inevitable blasphemy. He hugs his left hand to his side. "Mister!" he
hisses in my ear, "for the love of Christ get me a scarf out o' me
berth. It's a blue one, in the top drawer." Then, darting out for a
moment, he yells "Ai!" boiling over into asterisks. He darts in again,
hugging his hand. My foot is in the door, and together we wrench it
open. I drop down the companion and turn into his berth for the scarf.

It is while coming back that I see into the cabin, and I halt. The
Skipper is standing under the lamp holding out his hand for a cup of
coffee. And Nicholas, the fears and imaginings of a volatile race
blanching his wizened features, rocks unsteadily across the floor. The
big man with the white hair, red face, and cold blue eyes, towers over
him, those same eyes snapping with something that has nought to do
with money-making or Brixton, something not mentioned in any Board of
Trade regulations. And Nicholas, holding by the table, looks like a
rat in a trap, shaking with the fear of sudden death. A word from the
Skipper, and he turns and runs a zig-zag course for the door. He