"Your compass needle," he said, "points to the North Pole, and although
it has never been to the Pole, and cannot even conceive of it, yet it
testifies irresistibly to the existence of such a place."

"I trust you navigate your soul more skilfully than you would navigate
this vessel," retorted the Captain. "In the first place, the needle
does not point to the North Pole at all, but to the magnetic pole.
Furthermore, it has to be adjusted by magnets to counteract deviation.
Mr. Gissing, you may be a sincere student of theology, but you have not
allowed for your own temperamental deviation. Why, even the gyro compass
has to be adjusted for latitude error. You landsmen think that a ship is
simply a floating hotel. I should like to have the Bishop you spoke of
study a little navigation. That would put into him a healthy respect for
the marvels of science. On board ship, sir, the binnacle is kept locked
and the key is on the watch-chain of the master. It should be so in all
intellectual matters. Confide them to those capable of understanding."

Gissing saw that the Captain greatly relished his sense of superiority,
so he made a remark of intentional simplicity.

"The binnacle?" he said. "I thought that was the little shellfish that
clings to the bottom of the boat?"

"Don't you dare call my ship a BOAT!" said the Captain. "At sea, a boat
means only a lifeboat or some other small vagabond craft. Come out on
the bridge and I'll show you a thing or two."

The evening had closed in hazy, and the Pomerania swung steadily in a
long plunging roll. At the weather wing of the bridge, gazing sharply
over the canvas dodger, was Mr. Pointer, the vigilant Chief Officer,
peering off rigidly, as though mesmerized, but saying nothing. He gave
the Captain a courteous salute, but kept silence. At the large mahogany
wheel, gently steadying it to the quarterly roll of the sea, stood Dane,
a tall, solemn quartermaster. In spite of a little uneasiness, due to
the unfamiliar motion, Gissing was greatly elated by the wheelhouse,
which seemed even more thrillingly romantic than any pulpit.
Uncomprehendingly, but with admiration, he examined the binnacle, the
engine-room telegraphs, the telephones, the rack of signal-flags, the
buttons for closing the bulkheads, and the rotating clear-view screen
for lookout in thick weather. Aloft he could see the masthead light,
gently soaring in slow arcs.

"I'll show you my particular pride," said the Ca