atswain, as the watch mustered on deck; "take
the starboard bridge lookout."

"It is not my trick, boats'n," said Rowland, in surprise.

"Orders from the bridge. Get up there."

Rowland grumbled, as sailors may when aggrieved, and obeyed. The man he
relieved reported his name, and disappeared; the first officer sauntered
down the bridge, uttered the official, "keep a good lookout," and
returned to his post; then the silence and loneliness of a night-watch
at sea, intensified by the never-ceasing hum of the engines, and
relieved only by the sounds of distant music and laughter from the
theater, descended on the forward part of the ship. For the fresh
westerly wind, coming with the _Titan_, made nearly a calm on her deck;
and the dense fog, though overshone by a bright star-specked sky, was so
chilly that the last talkative passenger had fled to the light and life
within.

When three bells--half-past nine--had sounded, and Rowland had given in
his turn the required call--"all's well"--the first officer left his
post and approached him.

"Rowland," he said as he drew near; "I hear you've walked the
quarter-deck."

"I cannot imagine how you learned it, sir," replied Rowland; "I am not
in the habit of referring to it."

"You told the captain. I suppose the curriculum is as complete at
Annapolis as at the Royal Naval College. What do you think of Maury's
theories of currents?"

"They seem plausible," said Rowland, unconsciously dropping the "sir";
"but I think that in most particulars he has been proven wrong."

"Yes, I think so myself. Did you ever follow up another idea of
his--that of locating the position of ice in a fog by the rate of
decrease in temperature as approached?"

"Not to any definite result. But it seems to be only a matter of
calculation, and time to calculate. Cold is negative heat, and can be
treated like radiant energy, decreasing as the square of the distance."

The officer stood a moment, looking ahead and humming a tune to himself;
then, saying: "Yes, that's so," returned to his place.

"Must have a cast-iron stomach," he muttered, as he peered into the
binnacle; "or else the boats'n dosed the wrong man's pot."

Rowland glanced after the retreating officer with a cynical smile. "I
wonder," he said to himself, "why he comes down here talking navigation
to a foremast hand. Why am I up here--out of my turn? Is this something
in line with that bottle?" He resumed the short pacing back and f