Bull Sternford had been sharing the storm with the sturdy skipper on the bridge.  He had been listening to the old man’s talk of fierce experience on the coast of Labrador.  It had all been interesting to the landsman in view of the present storm, but at last he could no longer endure the exposure of the shelterless bridge.

“It’s me for the deck and a sheltered corner,” he finally declared, preparing to pass down the iron “companion.”

And the Captain grinned.

“I don’t blame you,” he bellowed in the shriek of the gale.  “But I guess I’d as lief have it this way.  It’s better than a flat sea an’ fog, which is mostly the alternative this time o’ year.  The Atlantic don’t offer much choice about now.  She’s like a shrew woman.  Her smile ain’t ever easy.  An’ when you get it you’ve most always got to pay good.  She can blow herself sick with this homeward bound breeze for all I care.”

“That’s all right,” Bull shouted back at him.  “Guess you’ve lost your sense of the ease of things working this coast so long.  It ’ud be me for the flat sea and fog all the time.  I like my chances taken standing square on two feet.  So long.”

He passed below, beating his hands for warmth.  And as he went he glanced back at the sturdy, oil-skinned figure clinging to the rail of the bridge.  The man’s far-off gaze was fixed on the storm-swept sky, reading every sign with the intimate knowledge of long years of experience.  It was a reassuring figure that must have put heart into the veriest weakling.  But Bull Sternford needed no such support.  In matters of life and death he was without emotion.

He scrambled his way to the leeward side of the engines where a certain warmth and shelter was to be had, and where a number of hardly tested deck chairs were securely lashed.  It was the resting place of those few beset passengers who could endure no longer the indifferent, odorous accommodation of the Myra’s saloon.  Only one chair was occupied.  For the rest the deck was completely deserted.

Bull’s first glance at the solitary passenger was sufficient.  The gleam of red hair under the fur cap told him all he wanted to know, and he groped his way along the slippery deck, and deposited his bulk safely into the chair beside Nancy McDonald.

“Say,” he cried, with a cheerful grin, as he struggled with his rug, “this sort of thing’s just about calculated to leave a feller feeling sympathy with the boy who hasn’t more sense than to spend his time trying to climb outside more Rye whisky than he was built to hold.  It makes you wonder at the fool thing that lies back of it all.  I mean the fuss going on out yonder.”

Nancy smiled round from amidst her furs.

“It does seem like useless mischief,” she agreed readily.  Then she laughed outright.  “But to see you crawling along the deck just now, grabbing any old thing for support, and often missing it, was a sight to leave one wondering how much dignity owes to personality, and how much to environment.  Guess environment’s an easy win.”