swept in from the broad ocean with a roar and a boom,
bearing the steamer along, floundering through the racing waters, with
a crushing following sea.

There were twelve hours of this yet ahead of him, and John Dunne paced
his bridge with every faculty alert. He watched the skies. He watched
the breaking waters. He watched the shores on either side of him, as
he might watch the movements of a remorseless adversary about to attack
him. He had navigated this channel for upwards of fifteen years, and
understood to-day how small was his understanding of its virtues, and
how real and complete his fears of its vices. But it was his work to
face it at all times and all seasons, and he accepted the
responsibility with a cheerful optimism and an equal skill.

Once or twice he howled a confidence to his chief officer, who occupied
the bridge with him. There were moments when his lips were at the
speaking tubes, and his hand on the telegraph. There were moments when
he stood with his arms folded over the breast of his thick pea-jacket,
and his half-closed eyes searched the barren shores while he leaned
against the shaking rail.

He had been on the bridge the whole night, and still his bodily vigor
seemed quite unimpaired. His stocky body concealed a power of
endurance which his life had hardened him to. He rarely talked of the
dangers through which he had journeyed on the northern seas. He feared
them too well to desire to recall them. He was wont to say he lived
only in the present. To look ahead would rob him of his nerve. To
gaze back over the manifold emergencies through which he had passed
would only undermine his will. The benefit of his philosophy was
displayed in his habitual success. In consequence he was the commodore
of his company's fleet.

He passed down from his bridge at last. And it was almost with
reluctance. It was breakfast time, and he had been summoned already
three times by an impatient steward. At the door of his cabin he was
met by John Kars who was to be his guest at the meal. These men were
old friends, bound by the common ties of the northland life. They had
made so many journeys together over these turbulent waters. To Kars it
would have been unthinkable to travel under any other sea captain.

"Still watching for those jaws to snap?" said Kars, as he passed into
the little room ahead of his host, and sniffed hungrily at the fragrant
odor of coffee.

"Why, yes," he said. "Ja