At sunset the _Olaf_ had crept cautiously in from the west--a
high-prowed, well-decked, square-rigged steamer of the old school, with
her name written large amidships and her side-lights set aft. Captain
Petersen was a cautious man, and came on with the leadsman working like
a clock. He was a man who moved slowly. And at sea, as in life, he who
moves slowly often runs many dangers which a greater confidence and
a little dash would avoid. He who moves slowly is the prey of every
current.

Captain Petersen steamed in behind the beacon. He sighted the windmill
very carefully, very correctly, very cautiously. He described a
half-circle round the bank hidden a few feet below the muddy water. Then
he steamed slowly seawards, keeping the windmill full astern and the
beacon on his port quarter. When the beacon was bearing southeast he
rang the engine-room bell. The steamer, hardly moving before, stopped
dead, its bluff nose turned to the wind and the rustling waves. Then
Captain Petersen held up his hand to the first mate, who was on the high
forecastle, and the anchor splashed over. The _Olaf_ was anchored at
the head of a submarine bay. She had shoal water all round her, and no
vessel could get at her unless it came as she had come. The sun went
down, and the red-gray clouds in the stormy west slowly faded into
night. There was no land in sight. Even the whirligig windmill was below
the horizon now. Only the three-legged beacon stood near, turning its
winking, wondering eye round the waste of waters.

Here the _Olaf_ rode out the gale that raged all through the night, and
in the morning there was no peace, for it still rained and the northwest
wind still blew hard. There was no depth of water, however, to make a
sea big enough to affect large vessels. The _Olaf_ rode easily enough,