We remained standing together in the night for a few moments while neither spoke.  My advances had not received the favorable acknowledgment I had expected, and there was a distinctly disagreeable feeling creeping upon me while in this neutral presence.  I was young and hot-headed, so I spoke accordingly before leaving the field, or rather deck, in retreat.

“I wish you had the distinction of belonging to the port watch.”

“Why?”

“I think I might strengthen your powers of discernment regarding the relative positions of second and third mates.”

“We’ll see who has the better insight in regard to the matter without my being bored to that extent,” said the third officer in his softest tones, and again I fancied I heard the voice of a man swearing fiercely in a low voice as if to himself.  Then I turned and went aft.

“It’s something queer,” said Trunnell, shaking his great shaggy head and glancing toward the break of the poop.  A step sounded on the companion ladder, and the skipper came on deck.

“Pretty dark, hey?” he said, and his quick eyes took in both Trunnell and myself comprehensively.

“Looks like we might have a spell o’ weather if the wind keeps fallin’,” observed Trunnell.

“Well, I don’t suppose a dark night is any worse than a bright one, and I call to mind many a time I’d give something to see it a bit blacker.  Do you know where you’re at?”

“She’s headin’ about the same, but if ye don’t mind, I’ll be gettin’ her down gradual like to her torps’ls if the glass keeps a-fallin’.  Short commons, says I, on the edge o’ the monsoon.”

“Short it is, my boy.  Get her down low.  The more she looks like you, the better she’ll do, hey?  What d’you think of that, Mr. Rolling?  The shorter the longer, the longer the shorter—­see?  The sooner the quicker, eh?  Supposen the question was asked you, Mr. Rolling, what’d you say, hey?  Why is Mr. Trunnell like a lady’s bouquet, hey?  Why is the little man like a bunch of flowers?  Don’t insult him, Mr. Rolling.  The sanitary outfit of the cabin is all right.  ’Tain’t that.  No, split me, it ain’t that.  Think a minute.”

Trunnell walked to and fro without a word, while the captain grinned.  The fellow at the wheel, Bill Spielgen, a square-cut man with an angular face and enormous hands, stared sullenly into the binnacle.

“It’s because he’s a daisy,” rapped out the skipper.  “That’s it, Mr. Rolling, he’s a daisy, ha, ha, ha!  Split me, if he ain’t, ho, ho, ho!  Shorten her down, Trunnell; you’re a daisy, and no mistake.”

There was a distinct smell of liquor in the light breeze, and as the skipper came within the glare of the binnacle lamp I could see he was well set up.  Trunnell went to the break of the poop and called out for the watch to clew down the fore and mizzen skysails.  He was much upset at the skipper’s talk, but knew better than to show it.  The captain now turned his attention to the man at the wheel.