man and his fate caused the helmsman no amusement. "I hope you are
bringing us luck this trip," said the sailor to me. "Last trip we got a
poor catch. I don't know where the fish have got to." Somewhere,
north-east about two hundred miles, was the fleet which, if I were the
right sort of mascot to the Windhover, we should pick up on the evening
of the next day.


3

When I left the wheel-house to go below, it was near midnight. As I
opened the heavy door of the house the night howled aloud at my
appearance. The night smelt pungently of salt and seaweed. The
hand-rail was cold and wet. The wind was like ice in my nose, and it
tasted like iron. Sometimes the next step was at a correct distance
below my feet; and then all that was under me would be swept away. I
descended into the muffled saloon, which was a little box enclosing light
and warmth partially submerged in the waters. There it smelt of hot
engine-oil and stale clothes. I got used to the murmuring transit of
something which swept our outer walls in immense bounds, and the flying
grind of the propeller, and the bang-clang of the rudder when it was
struck . . . and must have gone to sleep. . . .

When I woke, it was because the saloon in my dreams had gone mad.
Perhaps it had been going mad for some time. Really I was not fully
awake--it was four in the morning, the fire was out, and violent draughts
kept ballooning the blanket over me--and in another minute I might have
become quite aware that I had gone to sea for the first time. It was my
bench which properly woke me. It fell away from me, and I, of course,
went after it, and my impression is that I met it halfway on its return