"Looks like we might have a spell o' weather if the wind keeps fallin',"
observed Trunnell.

"Well, I don't suppose a dark night is any worse than a bright one, and I
call to mind many a time I'd give something to see it a bit blacker. Do
you know where you're at?"

"She's headin' about the same, but if ye don't mind, I'll be gettin' her
down gradual like to her torps'ls if the glass keeps a-fallin'. Short
commons, says I, on the edge o' the monsoon."

"Short it is, my boy. Get her down low. The more she looks like you, the
better she'll do, hey? What d'you think of that, Mr. Rolling? The shorter
the longer, the longer the shorter--see? The sooner the quicker, eh?
Supposen the question was asked you, Mr. Rolling, what'd you say, hey?
Why is Mr. Trunnell like a lady's bouquet, hey? Why is the little man
like a bunch of flowers? Don't insult him, Mr. Rolling. The sanitary
outfit of the cabin is all right. 'Tain't that. No, split me, it ain't
that. Think a minute."

Trunnell walked to and fro without a word, while the captain grinned. The
fellow at the wheel, Bill Spielgen, a square-cut man with an angular face
and enormous hands, stared sullenly into the binnacle.

"It's because he's a daisy," rapped out the skipper. "That's it, Mr.
Rolling, he's a daisy, ha, ha, ha! Split me, if he ain't, ho, ho, ho!
Shorten her down, Trunnell; you're a daisy, and no mistake."

There was a distinct smell of liquor in the light breeze, and as the
skipper came within the glare of the binnacle lamp I could see he was