"I have seen many a landsman funk it," she teased. "There are no
lubber-holes in our tops."

"And most likely I shall," I agreed. "I've never been aloft in my
life, and since there is no hole for a lubber."

She looked at me, half believing my confession of weakness, while I
extended my arms for the oilskin which Wada struggled on to me.

On the poop it was magnificent, and terrible, and sombre. The
universe was very immediately about us. It blanketed us in storming
wind and flying spray and grayness. Our main deck was impassable,
and the relief of the wheel came aft along the bridge. It was two
o'clock, and for over two hours the frozen wretches had laid out upon
the fore-yard. They were still there, weak, feeble, hopeless.
Captain West, stepping out in the lee of the chart-house, gazed at
them for several minutes.

"We'll have to give up that reef," he said to Mr. Pike. "Just make
the sail fast. Better put on double gaskets."

And with lagging feet, from time to time pausing and holding on as
spray and the tops of waves swept over him, the mate went for'ard
along the bridge to vent his scorn on the two watches of a four-
masted ship that could not reef a foresail.

It is true. They could not do it, despite their willingness, for
this I have learned: THE MEN DO THEIR WEAK BEST WHENEVER THE ORDER
IS GIVEN TO SHORTEN SAIL. It must be that they are afraid. They