’And the rising sun found him just as he had jumped up first in the bows of the boat.  What a persistence of readiness!  He had been holding the tiller in his hand, too, all the night.  They had dropped the rudder overboard while attempting to ship it, and I suppose the tiller got kicked forward somehow while they were rushing up and down that boat trying to do all sorts of things at once so as to get clear of the side.  It was a long heavy piece of hard wood, and apparently he had been clutching it for six hours or so.  If you don’t call that being ready!  Can you imagine him, silent and on his feet half the night, his face to the gusts of rain, staring at sombre forms watchful of vague movements, straining his ears to catch rare low murmurs in the stern-sheets!  Firmness of courage or effort of fear?  What do you think?  And the endurance is undeniable too.  Six hours more or less on the defensive; six hours of alert immobility while the boat drove slowly or floated arrested, according to the caprice of the wind; while the sea, calmed, slept at last; while the clouds passed above his head; while the sky from an immensity lustreless and black, diminished to a sombre and lustrous vault, scintillated with a greater brilliance, faded to the east, paled at the zenith; while the dark shapes blotting the low stars astern got outlines, relief became shoulders, heads, faces, features,—­confronted him with dreary stares, had dishevelled hair, torn clothes, blinked red eyelids at the white dawn.  “They looked as though they had been knocking about drunk in gutters for a week,” he described graphically; and then he muttered something about the sunrise being of a kind that foretells a calm day.  You know that sailor habit of referring to the weather in every connection.  And on my side his few mumbled words were enough to make me see the lower limb of the sun clearing the line of the horizon, the tremble of a vast ripple running over all the visible expanse of the sea, as if the waters had shuddered, giving birth to the globe of light, while the last puff of the breeze would stir the air in a sigh of relief.

’"They sat in the stern shoulder to shoulder, with the skipper in the middle, like three dirty owls, and stared at me,” I heard him say with an intention of hate that distilled a corrosive virtue into the commonplace words like a drop of powerful poison falling into a glass of water; but my thoughts dwelt upon that sunrise.  I could imagine under the pellucid emptiness of the sky these four men imprisoned in the solitude of the sea, the lonely sun, regardless of the speck of life, ascending the clear curve of the heaven as if to gaze ardently from a greater height at his own splendour reflected in the still ocean.  “They called out to me from aft,” said Jim, “as though we had been chums together.  I heard them.  They were begging me to be sensible and drop that ‘blooming piece of wood.’  Why would I carry on so?  They hadn’t done me any harm—­had they?  There had been no harm. . . .  No harm!”