“All sweet,” reported the mate as he hung up the speaking tube.

“That’s right,” said the Captain.  “You always want to know that, Mister Mate.  And the lights?”

“All bright, sir,” said the mate.

“Then you can go down and get something to eat,” said the Captain.  “And see that the hand wheel’s clear as you go.”

It breezed up that night, and as the Burdock cleared the tail of Cornwall, the heavy Atlantic water came aboard.  She was a sound ship, though, and Captain Price knew her as he knew the palms of his hands.  Screened behind the high weather-cloths, he drove her into it, while the tall seas filled her forward main deck rail-deep and her bows pounded away in a mast-high smother of spray.  From the binnacle amidships to the weather wing of the bridge was his dominion, while the watch officer straddled down to leeward; both with eyes boring at the darkness ahead and on either beam, where there came and went the pin-point lights of ships.

Arthur Price relieved the bridge at midnight, but the Captain held on.

“Ye see how she takes it?” he bawled down the wind to his son.  “No excuse for steaming wide; ye can drive her to a hair.  Keep your eyes on that light to port; we don’t want anything bumping into us.”

“You wouldn’t ease her a bit, then?” shouted the mate, the wind snatching his words.

“Ease her!” was the reply.  “You’d have her edging into France.  She’ll lie her course while we drive her.”

When dawn came up the sea had mounted; the Bay was going to be true to its name.  Captain Price went to his chart-house at midnight, to sleep on a settle; but by his orders the Burdock was kept to her course and her gait, battering away at the gale contentedly.

After breakfast, he took another look round and then went below to rest in his bunk, while the tell-tale swam in wild eccentrics above his upturned face.  After a while he dozed off to sleep, lulled by the click of furnishings that rendered to the ship’s roll, the drum of the seas on her plates, and the swish of loose water across the deck.

He was roused by his steward.  That menial laid a hand on his shoulder and he was forthwith awake and competent.

“A ship to windward, sir, showin’ flags,” said the steward.  “The mate ’ud be glad if you’d go to the bridge.”

“A’ right,” said the Captain, and stood up.  “In distress, eh?”

“By the looks of her, sir,” admitted the steward, who had been a waiter ashore.  “She seems to be a mast or two short, sir, so far as I can tell.  But I couldn’t be sure.”

He helped the Captain into his oilskins deftly, pulling his jacket down under the long coat, and held the door open for him.

Some three miles to windward the stranger lay, an appealing vagabond.  The Captain found his son standing on the flag-chest, braced against a stanchion, watching her through a pair of glasses, when she peeped up, a momentary silhouette, over the tall seas.  He turned as the Captain approached.