sail. Let
your attention wander, and she'll run up into the wind and perhaps get
in irons, so that she won't cast either way. Let her fall off when
you're running free, and she'll broach to and get taken aback. Or
simply let her yaw about a bit instead of holding true, and you'll lose
a knot or two an hour. But do none of these careless things, observe
all the rules as well, and even then you will never make a helmsman
unless it's born in you. Steering is blown into you by the wind and
soaked into you by the water. And you must also have {120} that inborn
faculty of touch which tells you instinctively how to meet a vessel's
vagaries--and no two vessels are alike--as well as how to make her fall
in with all the humours of a wayward ocean.

The hungry great Antarctic wind comes swooping down. The _Victoria_
lays over to it, her forefoot slashing, her lee side hissing, the
windward rigging strained and screaming, and every stitch of canvas
drawing full. Still the skipper carries on. He and his vessel have a
name to keep up; and he has carried on till all was blue ere this, and
left more than one steam kettle panting. Every timber, plank, mast,
yard, and tackle wakes to new life and thrills in response to the
sails. She answers her helm quickly, eagerly. She rides the galloping
waters now as you ride her. And as she rises to each fresh wave you
also rise, with the same exultant spring, and take the leap in your
stride.

The wind pipes up: a regular gale is evidently brewing; and most of the
canvas must come off her now or else she'll soon be stripped of it.
'Stand by your royal halliards!' yells the second mate. 'Let go your
royal halliards!' The royals are down for good. The skysails have
been taken in before. Another {121} tremendous blast lays her far
over, and the sea is a lather of foam to windward. The skipper comes
on deck, takes a quick look round, and shouts at the full pitch of his
lungs: 'All hands shorten sail!' Up come the other watch in their
oilskins, which they have carefully lashed round their wrists and above
their knees to keep the water out. Taking in sail is no easy matter
now. Every one tails on, puts his back into it, and joins the chorus
of the hard-breathed chanty. The human voices sound like fitful
screams of seabirds, heard in wild snatches between the volleying
gusts; while overhead the sails are booming like artillery, as the
spilling lines strain to get the grip. 'Now t