"He has only one sense, that man--a sense of infinite fearlessness."

"He is probably afraid--" Captain Petersen paused to hoist himself
laboriously on to the rail.

"Of what?" inquired Martin, looking through the ratlines.

"Of a woman."

And Martin Bukaty's answer was lost in the roar of the wind as he went
aloft.

They lay on the fore-yard for half an hour, talking from time to time in
breathless monosyllables, for the wind was gathering itself together for
that last effort which usually denotes the end of a gale. Then Captain
Petersen pointed his steady hand almost straight ahead. On the gray
horizon a little column of smoke rose like a pillar. It was a steamer
approaching before the wind.

Captain Cable came on at a great pace. His ship was very low in the
water, and kicked up awkwardly on a following sea. He swung round the
beacon on the shoulder of a great wave that turned him over till
the rounded wet sides of the steamer gleamed like a whale's back. He
disappeared into the haze nearer the land, and presently emerged again
astern of the _Olaf_, a black nozzle of iron and an intermittent fan
of spray. He was crashing into the seas at full speed--a very different
kind of sailor to the careful captain of the _Olaf_. His low decks were
clear, and each sea leaped over the bow and washed aft--green and white.
As the little steamer came down he suddenly slackened speed, and waved