"Pilots sometimes lose ships as well as save them," said Griffith: "know
you the man well, Captain Munson, who holds all our lives in his
keeping, and so coolly as if he cared but little for the venture?"

"Mr. Griffith, I do know him; he is, in my opinion, both competent and
faithful. Thus much I tell you, to relieve your anxiety; more you must
not ask;--but is there not a shift of wind?"

"God forbid!" exclaimed his lieutenant; "if that northeaster catches us
within the shoals, our case will be desperate indeed!"

The heavy rolling of the vessel caused an occasional expansion, and as
sudden a reaction, in their sails, which left the oldest seaman in the
ship in doubt which way the currents of air were passing, or whether
there existed any that were not created by the flapping of their own
canvas. The head of the ship, however, began to fall off from the sea,
and notwithstanding the darkness, it soon became apparent that she was
driving in, bodily, towards the shore.

During these few minutes of gloomy doubt, Griffith, by one of those
sudden revulsions of the mind that connect the opposite extremes of
feeling, lost his animated anxiety, and elapsed into the listless apathy
that so often came over him, even in the most critical moments of trial
and danger. He was standing with one elbow resting on his capstan,
shading his eyes from the light of the battle-lantern that stood near
him with one hand, when he felt a gentle pressure of the other, that
recalled his recollection. Looking affectionately, though still
recklessly, at the boy who stood at his side, he said:

"Dull music, Mr. Merry."