spell below staring and blinking at the cabin lamp through a cloud of tobacco smoke.  He has told me since that he was happy, which I should never have divined.  “You see,” he said, “the wind we had was never anything out of the way; but the sea was really nasty, the schooner wanted a lot of humouring, and it was clear from the glass that we were close to some dirt.  We might be running out of it, or we might be running right crack into it.  Well, there’s always something sublime about a big deal like that; and it kind of raises a man in his own liking.  We’re a queer kind of beasts, Mr. Dodd.”

The morning broke with sinister brightness; the air alarmingly transparent, the sky pure, the rim of the horizon clear and strong against the heavens.  The wind and the wild seas, now vastly swollen, indefatigably hunted us.  I stood on deck, choking with fear; I seemed to lose all power upon my limbs; my knees were as paper when she plunged into the murderous valleys; my heart collapsed when some black mountain fell in avalanche beside her counter, and the water, that was more than spray, swept round my ankles like a torrent.  I was conscious of but one strong desire, to bear myself decently in my terrors, and whatever should happen to my life, preserve my character:  as the captain said, we are a queer kind of beasts.  Breakfast time came, and I made shift to swallow some hot tea.  Then I must stagger below to take the time, reading the chronometer with dizzy eyes, and marvelling the while what value there could be in observations taken in a ship launched (as ours then was) like a missile among flying seas.  The forenoon dragged on in a grinding monotony of peril; every spoke of the wheel a rash, but an obliged experiment—­rash as a forlorn hope, needful as the leap that lands a fireman from a burning staircase.  Noon was made; the captain dined on his day’s work, and I on watching him; and our place was entered on the chart with a meticulous precision which seemed to me half pitiful and half absurd, since the next eye to behold that sheet of paper might be the eye of an exploring fish.  One o’clock came, then two; the captain gloomed and chafed, as he held to the coaming of the house, and if ever I saw dormant murder in man’s eye, it was in his.  God help the hand that should have disobeyed him.

Of a sudden, he turned towards the mate, who was doing his trick at the wheel.

“Two points on the port bow,” I heard him say.  And he took the wheel himself.

Johnson nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his wet hand, watched a chance as the vessel lunged up hill, and got to the main rigging, where he swarmed aloft.  Up and up, I watched him go, hanging on at every ugly plunge, gaining with every lull of the schooner’s movement, until, clambering into the cross-trees and clinging with one arm around the masts, I could see him take one comprehensive sweep of the southwesterly horizon.  The next moment, he had slid down the backstay and stood on deck, with a grin, a nod, and a gesture of the finger that said “yes”; the next again, and he was back sweating and squirming at the wheel, his tired face streaming and smiling, and his hair and the rags and corners of his clothes lashing round him in the wind.