thundering good one!'

Dinner ran a smooth course, but just as coffee was being brewed the
hull, from pitching regularly, began to roll.

'I knew she would,' said Davies. 'I was going to warn you, only--the
ebb has set in _against_ the wind. It's quite safe--'

'I thought you said it would get calmer when the tide fell?'

'So it will, but it may _seem_ rougher. Tides are queer things,' he
added, as though in defence of some not very respectable
acquaintances.

He busied himself with his logbook, swaying easily to the motion of
the boat; and I for my part tried to write up my diary, but I could
not fix my attention. Every loose article in the boat became audibly
restless. Cans clinked, cupboards rattled, lockers uttered hollow
groans. Small things sidled out of dark hiding-places, and danced
grotesque drunken figures on the floor, like goblins in a haunted
glade. The mast whined dolorously at every heel, and the centre-board
hiccoughed and choked. Overhead another horde of demons seemed to
have been let loose. The deck and mast were conductors which
magnified every sound and made the tap-tap of every rope's end
resemble the blows of a hammer, and the slapping of the halyards
against the mast the rattle of a Maxim gun. The whole tumult beat
time to a rhythmical chorus which became maddening.

'We might turn in now,' said Davies; 'it's half-past ten.'