I would replace the destroyed instruments upon the bridge;
every officer and man should know when we crossed thirty.
But then I should assert the spirit which dominated me, I
should resist arrest, and insist upon bringing my ship back
across the dead line, remaining at my post until we had
reached New York. Then I should make a full report, and
with it a demand upon public opinion that the dead lines be
wiped forever from the seas.

I knew that I was right. I knew that no more loyal officer
wore the uniform of the navy. I knew that I was a good
officer and sailor, and I didn't propose submitting to
degradation and discharge because a lot of old, preglacial
fossils had declared over two hundred years before that no
man should cross thirty.

Even while these thoughts were passing through my mind I was
busy with the details of my duties. I had seen to it that a
sea anchor was rigged, and even now the men had completed
their task, and the Coldwater was swinging around rapidly,
her nose pointing once more into the wind, and the frightful
rolling consequent upon her wallowing in the trough was
happily diminishing.

It was then that Johnson came hurrying to the bridge. One
of his eyes was swollen and already darkening, and his lip
was cut and bleeding. Without even the formality of a
salute, he burst upon me, white with fury.