mushroom.  At times he would interrupt his uneasy shuffle athwart the break of the poop, and stand motionless with a vague gaze fixed on the image of the brig in the calm water.  He could also see down there his own head and shoulders leaning out over the rail and he would stand long, as if interested by his own features, and mutter vague curses on the calm which lay upon the ship like an immovable burden, immense and burning.

At last, he sighed profoundly, nerved himself for a great effort, and making a start away from the rail managed to drag his slippers as far as the binnacle.  There he stopped again, exhausted and bored.  From under the lifted glass panes of the cabin skylight near by came the feeble chirp of a canary, which appeared to give him some satisfaction.  He listened, smiled faintly muttered “Dicky, poor Dick—­” and fell back into the immense silence of the world.  His eyes closed, his head hung low over the hot brass of the binnacle top.  Suddenly he stood up with a jerk and said sharply in a hoarse voice: 

“You’ve been sleeping—­you.  Shift the helm.  She has got stern way on her.”

The Malay, without the least flinch of feature or pose, as if he had been an inanimate object called suddenly into life by some hidden magic of the words, spun the wheel rapidly, letting the spokes pass through his hands; and when the motion had stopped with a grinding noise, caught hold again and held on grimly.  After a while, however, he turned his head slowly over his shoulder, glanced at the sea, and said in an obstinate tone: 

“No catch wind—­no get way.”

“No catch—­no catch—­that’s all you know about it,” growled the red-faced seaman.  “By and by catch Ali—­” he went on with sudden condescension.  “By and by catch, and then the helm will be the right way.  See?”

The stolid seacannie appeared to see, and for that matter to hear, nothing.  The white man looked at the impassive Malay with disgust, then glanced around the horizon—­then again at the helmsman and ordered curtly: 

“Shift the helm back again.  Don’t you feel the air from aft?  You are like a dummy standing there.”

The Malay revolved the spokes again with disdainful obedience, and the red-faced man was moving forward grunting to himself, when through the open skylight the hail “On deck there!” arrested him short, attentive, and with a sudden change to amiability in the expression of his face.

“Yes, sir,” he said, bending his ear toward the opening.  “What’s the matter up there?” asked a deep voice from below.

The red-faced man in a tone of surprise said: 

“Sir?”

“I hear that rudder grinding hard up and hard down.  What are you up to, Shaw?  Any wind?”

“Ye-es,” drawled Shaw, putting his head down the skylight and speaking into the gloom of the cabin.  “I thought there was a light air, and—­but it’s gone now.  Not a breath anywhere under the heavens.”