He simply could not go below. In such auspicious occasions all
watches were his, and he strode the poop perpetually with all age-lag
banished from his legs. Margaret and I were with him in the chart-
room when he hurrahed the barometer, down to 28.55 and falling. And
we were near him, on the poop, when he drove by an east-bound lime-
juicer, hove-to under upper-topsails. We were a biscuit-toss away,
and he sprang upon the rail at the jigger-shrouds and danced a war-
dance and waved his free arm, and yelled his scorn and joy at their
discomfiture to the several oilskinned figures on the stranger
vessel's poop.
Through the pitch-black night we continued to drive. The crew was
sadly frightened, and I sought in vain, in the two dog-watches, for
Tom Spink, to ask him if he thought the carpenter, astern, had opened
wide the bag-mouth and loosed all his tricks. For the first time I
saw the steward apprehensive.
"Too much," he told me, with ominous rolling head. "Too much sail,
rotten bad damn all to hell. Bime-by, pretty quick, all finish.
Pages:
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444