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 wha
