Even Charles Davis, drenched and shivering, hung
on beside me to the brass ring-handle of the chart-house door.
Such sailing! It was a madness of speed and motion, for the Elsinore
drove over and through and under those huge graybeards that thundered
shore-ward. There were times, when rolls and gusts worked against
her at the same moment, when I could have sworn the ends of her
lower-yardarms swept the sea.
It was one chance in ten that we could claw off. All knew it, and
all knew there was nothing more to do but await the issue. And we
waited in silence. The only voice was that of the mate,
intermittently cursing, threatening, and ordering Tom Spink and the
Maltese Cockney at the wheel. Between whiles, and all the while, he
gauged the gusts, and ever his eyes lifted to the main-topgallant-
yard. He wanted to set that one more sail. A dozen times I saw him
half-open his mouth to give the order he dared not give. And as I
watched him, so all watched him. Hard-bitten, bitter-natured, sour-
featured and snarling-mouthed, he was the one man, the henchman of
the race, the master of the moment.
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