give. We were probably nearing the North Pole. About midnight, the
silent helmsman put away his pipe, as a preliminary to answering a
foolish question of mine, and said, "Sometimes it happens. It's bound
to. You can see for ye'self. They're little things, these trawlers.
Just about last Christmas--wasn't it about Christmas-time, Skipper?--the
_Mavis_ left the fleet to go home. Boilers wrong. There was one of our
hands, Jim Budge, who was laid up, and he reckoned he'd better get home
quick. So he joined her. We were off the Tail of the Dogger, and it
blew that night. Next morning Jim's mate swore Jim's bunk had been laid
in. It was wet. He said the _Mavis_ had gone. I could see the bunk was
wet all right, but what are ventilators for? Chance it, the _Mavis_
never got home. A big sea to flood the engine-room, and there she goes."


5

After the next daybreak time stood still--or rather, I refused to note
its passage. For that morning I made out the skipper, drenched with
spray, and his eyes bloodshot, no doubt through weariness and the
weather, watching me from the saloon doorway. I did not ask any
questions, but pretended I was merely turning in my sleep. It is
probably better not to ask the man who has succeeded in losing you where
you are, particularly when his eyes are bloodshot and he is wondering
what the deuce he shall do about it. And greater caution still is
required when his reproachful silence gives you the idea that he thinks
you a touch of ill-luck in his enterprise. My companions, I believe,
regretted I had not been omitted. I tried, therefore, to be
inconspicuous, and went up to seclude myself at the back of the boat on
the poop, there to understudy a dog which is sorry it did it. Not
adverse fate itself could show a more misanthropic aspect than the empty