the bridge affords.

Scraps of their protest to the fates carry to our post in breaks of the
wind "Aw, you guys! Say! Wisha was back 'n li'l old N'yok, ringin' th'
dial 'n a Twanny-Thoid Street car!" "Whaddya mean--a Scotch highball?
Gee! I gotta thoist f'r all th' wet we soak!" "Bettcha Heinie's goin'a
pay _me_ cents an' dallers f'r this!" ". . . an' a job claenin' me
roifle. . . . th' sargint, be damn but, he . . . ."

"Cut it! Less talk 'round there!" orders their duty officer from
somewhere in the darkness; the talk ceases, though stamp and bustle of
expectant relief persist, and we are recalled to survey and reflection
on the gloom ahead.

Midnight now, and no sign of a change! Anxiously we scan sea and sky for
hope or a promise--not a token! A squall of driving sleet has passed
over, and has left the outlook moderately clear, but a quick-rising bank
of hard clouds in the nor'east threatens another, and a heavier, by the
look, soon to follow. A moonless night, not a star shines through the
sullen upper clouds to mark even a flying break in the lift of it. A
hopeless turn for midnight, showing no relief, no prospect!

Ahead, the dark bulk of our column leader sways and thrashes through the
spiteful easterly sea, throwing the wash broad out and taking the spray
high over bow and funnel. In turn, we lurch and drive at the same sea
that has stirred her, and find it with strength enough to lash over and
fill the fore-deck abrim. Weighed down forward, we throw our stern high,
and the mad propeller thrashes in air, jarring every bolt and rivet in
her. We cant to windward, joggling in an uneasy lurch, then throw
swiftly on a sudden list that frees the decks of the encumbering water.
We ease a pace or two as the propeller finds solid sea to churn, steady,
then gather way to meet the next green wall. With it the squall breaks
and lashes furiously over us, driving the icy slants of hard sleet to
our face, cutting at our eyes in vicious persistence. Joined to the
wind-burst, a heavy sea shatters on fore-end of the bridge, and ring of
the steel bulkhead sounds in with the crash of broken water that floods
on us.

In this succession the day and half the night have passed. No 'let-up'
in the round of it. Furious wind-bursts marking time on the face of a
steady gale. Rain--and now sleet. Sleet! Who ever heard of icy sleet in
North Atlantic, this time of the year? Gad! Every cursed thing seems to
weigh in against us on this v