The way the
poor Elsinore pitches, plunges, rolls, and shivers, with all her
lofty spars and masts and all her five thousand tons of dead-weight
cargo, is astonishing. To me she is the most erratic thing
imaginable; yet Mr. Pike, with whom I now pace the poop on occasion,
tells me that coal is a good cargo, and that the Elsinore is well-
loaded because he saw to it himself.
He will pause abruptly, in the midst of his interminable pacing, in
order to watch her in her maddest antics. The sight is very pleasant
to him, for his eyes glisten and a faint glow seems to irradiate his
face and impart to it a hint of ecstasy. The Elsinore has a snug
place in his heart, I am confident. He calls her behaviour
admirable, and at such times will repeat to me that it was he who saw
to her loading.
It is very curious, the habituation of this man, through a long life
on the sea, to the motion of the sea. There IS a rhythm to this
chaos of crossing, buffeting waves. I sense this rhythm, although I
cannot solve it. But Mr. Pike KNOWS it.
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