And the other, an older man, uttered grumpily: "No fear! not while
the chief mate's on deck. He's that deaf he can't tell how much
wind there is."

And, indeed, poor P-, quite young, and a smart seaman, was very
hard of hearing. At the same time, he had the name of being the
very devil of a fellow for carrying on sail on a ship. He was
wonderfully clever at concealing his deafness, and, as to carrying
on heavily, though he was a fearless man, I don't think that he
ever meant to take undue risks. I can never forget his naive sort
of astonishment when remonstrated with for what appeared a most
dare-devil performance. The only person, of course, that could
remonstrate with telling effect was our captain, himself a man of
dare-devil tradition; and really, for me, who knew under whom I was
serving, those were impressive scenes. Captain S- had a great name
for sailor-like qualities--the sort of name that compelled my
youthful admiration. To this day I preserve his memory, for,
indeed, it was he in a sense who completed my training. It was
often a stormy process, but let that pass. I am sure he meant
well, and I am certain that never, not even at the time, could I
bear him malice for his extraordinary gift of incisive criticism.
And to hear HIM make a fuss about too much sail on the ship seemed
one of those incredible experiences that take place only in one's
dreams.

It generally happened in this way: Night, clouds racing overhead,
wind howling, royals set, and the ship rushing on in the dark, an
immense white sheet of foam level with the lee rail. Mr. P-, in
charge of the deck, hooked on to the windward mizzen rigging in a
state of perfect serenity; myself, the third mate, also hooked on