was a wet ship. 'We're running into it,' said old Jackson to the mate.
I was at the wheel. 'Look out, and call me if I'm wanted.'"

The man pushed his plate away, and leaned towards me, elbows on the
table, putting close his flat and brutish face, with his wet hair
plastered over all the brow he had. He appeared to be a little drowsy
with food. "Ever crossed the Western ocean in winter? Sometimes
there's nothing in it. But when it's bad there's no word for it.
There was our old bitch, filling up for'ard every time she dropped, and
rolling enough to shift the boilers. We reckoned something was coming
all right. Then when it began to blow, from dead ahead, the old man
wouldn't ease her. That was like old Jackson. It makes you think of
your comfortable little home, watching them big grey-backs running by
your ship, and no hot grub because the galley's flooded. The Wolf was
only two days behind us, and we had all the way to go. It was lively,
guv'nor. The third night I was in with the cook helping him to get
something for the men. They'd been roping her hatches. The covers
were beginning to come adrift, y'understand. The cook, he was slipping
about, grousing all round. Then she stopped dead, and the lights went
out. Something swept right over us with a hell of a rush, and I felt
the deck give under my feet. The galley filled with water. 'Christ,
she's done,' shouted the cook.

"We scrambled out. It was too dark to see anything, but we could hear
the old man shouting. The engines had stopped. I fell over some
wreckage." The sailor stroked his nose. "This is what it did.

"Next morning you wouldn't have known the old _Starlight_. All her
boats had gone, and she had a list to port like a roof. You wanted to
be a bird to get about her. The crowd looked blue enough when they saw