tranquil, directed my blundering movements.

'Now take the helm and try steering in a hard breeze to windward.
It's the finest sport on earth.'

So I grappled with the niceties of that delicate craft; smarting
eyes, chafed hands, and dazed brain all pressed into the service,
whilst Davies, taming the ropes the while, shouted into my ear the
subtle mysteries of the art; that fidgeting ripple in the luff of the
mainsail, and the distant rattle from the hungry jib--signs that they
are starved of wind and must be given more; the heavy list and wallow
of the hull, the feel of the wind on your cheek instead of your nose,
the broader angle of the burgee at the masthead--signs that they have
too much, and that she is sagging recreantly to leeward instead of
fighting to windward. He taught me the tactics for meeting squalls,
and the way to press your advantage when they are defeated--the iron
hand in the velvet glove that the wilful tiller needs if you are to
gain your ends with it; the exact set of the sheets necessary to get
the easiest and swiftest play of the hull--all these things and many
more I struggled to apprehend, careless for the moment as to whether
they were worth knowing, but doggedly set on knowing them. Needless
to say, I had no eyes for beauty. The wooded inlets we dived into
gave a brief respite from wind and spindrift, but called into use the
lead and the centre-board tackle--two new and cumbrous complexities.
Davies's passion for intricate navigation had to be sated even in
these secure and tideless waters.

'Let's get in as near as we can--you stand by the lead,' was his
formula; so I made false casts, tripped up in the slack, sent rivers
of water up my sleeves, and committed all the other _gaucheries_ that