“Then you’d have the Burdock!” The Captain leaned his elbow on the engine-room telegraph and faced his son.  His expression was wholly compounded of perplexity and surprise.  He let his eyes wander aft, along the big ship’s trim perspective to the short poop, and forward to where her bluff bows sawed at the skyline.

“She’s a fine old boat,” he said at last, and stood up with a sigh. “but she needs watching.”  The mate felt a thrill of relief.  “I’ll watch her,” he said comfortably.  “But don’t you want to wish me luck, father?”

“Not luck,” said the Captain; “not luck, my boy.  You run her to a hair and keep your eyes slit and you won’t want luck.  Luck’s a lubber’s standby.  But Minnie’s a fine girl.”  He shook his head thoughtfully.  “She’ll rouse you up, maybe.”

The mate laughed, and at the sound of it the Captain frowned again.

“Now, lean off that binnacle,” he said shortly.  “I want to get the bearings.”

It was not till an hour later that he went to his cabin to shed his shore-going gear for ordinary apparel; and as soon as this was done he reached down the register from the book-shelf over his bunk to look up the Stormberg.

“H’m,” he growled, standing over the book at his desk.  “Built in 1889 on the Clyde.  I know her style.  Five thousand tons, and touch the steam steering-gear if you dare!  Blast her, and blast Davis for a junk-buying fool!”

He closed the book with a slam and glanced mechanically up at the tell-tale compass that hung over his bed.

“There’s Arthur half a point off already,” he said, and made for the bridge.

Arthur Price believed honestly that more was exacted from him than from other chief mates; and early in that passage he concluded that the Old Man was severer than ever.  The Burdock butted into a summer gale before she was clear of the Bristol Channel, a free wind that came from the south-west driving a biggish sea before it.  It was nothing to give real trouble, but Captain Price took charge in the dog watch and set the mate and his men to making all fast about decks.  With his sou’wester flapped back from his forehead and his oilskin coat shrouding him to the heels, he leaned on the bridge rail, vociferous and imperative, and his harsh voice hunted the workers from one task to another.  He had lashings on the anchors and fresh wedges to the battens of all hatches; the winches chocked off and covered over and new pins in the davit blocks.  This took time, but when it was done he was not yet satisfied; the mate had to get out gear and rig a couple of preventer funnel stays.  The men looked ahead at the weather and wondered what the skipper saw in it to make such a bother; the second and third mates winked at one another behind Arthur Price’s back; and he, the chief mate, sulked.

“That’s all, I suppose?” he asked the Captain when he got on the bridge again at last.

“No,” was the sharp answer.  “It’s not all.  Speak the engine-room and ask the chief how he’s hitting it.”