helmet of some legendary hero. He was smoking a cigar, and he smiled
and greeted me. But he seemed very tired and very old--old with
wisdom, however, not weakness. The flesh of his face, the pink
pigment quite washed and worn away, was more transparent than ever;
and yet never was he more serene, never more the master absolute of
our tiny, fragile world. The age that showed in him was not a matter
of terrestrial years. It was ageless, passionless, beyond human.
Never had he appeared so great to me, so far remote, so much a spirit
visitant.

And he cautioned and advised me, in silver-mellow beneficent voice,
as I essayed the venture of opening the chart-house door to gain
outside. He knew the moment, although I never could have guessed it
for myself, and gave the word that enabled me to win the poop.

Water was everywhere. The Elsinore was rushing through a blurring
whirr of water. Seas creamed and licked the poop-deck edge, now to
starboard, now to port. High in the air, over-towering and
perilously down-toppling, following-seas pursued our stern. The air
was filled with spindrift like a fog or spray. No officer of the
watch was in sight. The poop was deserted, save for two helmsmen in
streaming oilskins under the half-shelter of the open wheel-house. I
nodded good morning to them.

One was Tom Spink, the elderly but keen and dependable English
sailor. The other was Bill Quigley, one of a forecastle group of
three that herded uniquely together, though the other two, Frank
Fitzgibbon and Richard Oiler, were in the second mate's watch. The
three had proved handy with their fists, and clannish; they had
fought pitched forecastle battles with the gangster clique and won a