Captain MacWhirr looked up at the wheelhouse clock. Screwed to the
bulk-head, it had a white face on which the black hands appeared to
stand quite still. It was half-past one in the morning.
"Another day," he muttered to himself.
The second mate heard him, and lifting his head as one grieving amongst
ruins, "You won't see it break," he exclaimed. His wrists and his knees
could be seen to shake violently. "No, by God! You won't. . . ."
He took his face again between his fists.
The body of the helmsman had moved slightly, but his head didn't budge
on his neck,--like a stone head fixed to look one way from a column.
During a roll that all but took his booted legs from under him, and
in the very stagger to save himself, Captain MacWhirr said austerely,
"Don't you pay any attention to what that man says." And then, with an
indefinable change of tone, very grave, he added, "He isn't on duty."
The sailor said nothing.
The hurricane boomed, shaking the little place, which seemed air-tight;
and the light of the binnacle flickered all the time.
"You haven't been relieved," Captain MacWhirr went on, looking down. "I
want you to stick to the helm, though, as long as you can. You've
got the hang of her. Another man coming here might make a mess of it.
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