coal-black shape upon the gloomy blueness of the air. I was a
youngster then, and suffering from weariness, cold, and imperfect
oilskins which let water in at every seam. I craved human
companionship, and, coming off the poop, took my place by the side
of the boatswain (a man whom I did not like) in a comparatively dry
spot where at worst we had water only up to our knees. Above our
heads the explosive booming gusts of wind passed continuously,
justifying the sailor's saying "It blows great guns." And just
from that need of human companionship, being very close to the man,
I said, or rather shouted:

"Blows very hard, boatswain."

His answer was:

"Ay, and if it blows only a little harder things will begin to go.
I don't mind as long as everything holds, but when things begin to
go it's bad."

The note of dread in the shouting voice, the practical truth of
these words, heard years ago from a man I did not like, have
stamped its peculiar character on that gale.

A look in the eyes of a shipmate, a low murmur in the most
sheltered spot where the watch on duty are huddled together, a
meaning moan from one to the other with a glance at the windward
sky, a sigh of weariness, a gesture of disgust passing into the
keeping of the great wind, become part and parcel of the gale. The
olive hue of hurricane clouds presents an aspect peculiarly
appalling. The inky ragged wrack, flying before a nor'-west wind,