reading the chapter on the
storms there."

This was true. He had been reading the chapter on the storms. When he
had entered the chart-room, it was with no intention of taking the book
down. Some influence in the air--the same influence, probably, that
caused the steward to bring without orders the Captain's sea-boots and
oilskin coat up to the chart-room--had as it were guided his hand to
the shelf; and without taking the time to sit down he had waded with a
conscious effort into the terminology of the subject. He lost himself
amongst advancing semi-circles, left- and right-hand quadrants, the
curves of the tracks, the probable bearing of the centre, the shifts of
wind and the readings of barometer. He tried to bring all these
things into a definite relation to himself, and ended by becoming
contemptuously angry with such a lot of words, and with so much advice,
all head-work and supposition, without a glimmer of certitude.

"It's the damnedest thing, Jukes," he said. "If a fellow was to believe
all that's in there, he would be running most of his time all over the
sea trying to get behind the weather."

Again he slapped his leg with the book; and Jukes opened his mouth, but
said nothing.

"Running to get behind the weather! Do you understand that, Mr. Jukes?
It's the maddest thing!" ejaculated Captain MacWhirr, with pauses,
gazing at the floor profoundly. "You would think an old woman had been
writing this. It passes me. If that thing means anything useful, then
it means that I should at once alter the course away, away to the devil
somewhere, and come booming down on Fu-chau from the northward at the
tail of this dirty weather that's supposed to be knocking about in our
way. From the north! Do you understand, Mr. Jukes? Three hundred extra
miles to the distance, and a pretty coal bill to show. I couldn't bring
myself to do that if every word in there was gospel truth, Mr. Jukes.
Don't you expect me. . . ."

And Jukes, silent, marvelled at this display of feeling and loquacity.

"But the truth is that you don't know if the fellow is right, anyhow.
How can you tell what a gale is made of till you get it? He isn't aboard
here, is he? Very well. Here he says that the centre of them things
bears eight points off the wind; but we haven't got any wind, for all
the barometer falling. Where's his centre now?"

"We will get the wind presently," mumbled Jukes.

"Let it come, then," said Captain MacWhirr, with dignified