somewhere to windward of the slanting poop, in a state of the
utmost preparedness to jump at the very first hint of some sort of
order, but otherwise in a perfectly acquiescent state of mind.
Suddenly, out of the companion would appear a tall, dark figure,
bareheaded, with a short white beard of a perpendicular cut, very
visible in the dark--Captain S-, disturbed in his reading down
below by the frightful bounding and lurching of the ship. Leaning
very much against the precipitous incline of the deck, he would
take a turn or two, perfectly silent, hang on by the compass for a
while, take another couple of turns, and suddenly burst out:

"What are you trying to do with the ship?"

And Mr. P-, who was not good at catching what was shouted in the
wind, would say interrogatively:

"Yes, sir?"

Then in the increasing gale of the sea there would be a little
private ship's storm going on in which you could detect strong
language, pronounced in a tone of passion and exculpatory
protestations uttered with every possible inflection of injured
innocence.

"By Heavens, Mr. P-! I used to carry on sail in my time, but--"

And the rest would be lost to me in a stormy gust of wind.

Then, in a lull, P-'s protesting innocence would become audible: