ght, and I cannot sleep. As I woke, Six Bells,
eleven o'clock, was striking, half carried away by the wind. For the
storm is rising, and a beam sea sends wave after wave against my
ports. Now and then, in the lulls, I feel the race of the propeller as
she rises from the water, sending vast tremors through the frame of
the empty ship. How she rolls! In my thwart-ship bunk I slide up and
down, and the green seas thunder over my head repeatedly. As I turn
out I feel excited. North Atlantic, light ship.

The mess-room is silent, dark. To and fro on the floor there washes a
few inches of water. The stove-pipe has been carried away, and the sea
has flooded the stove. The solid teak door at the top of the companion
groans as the tons of water are hurled against it. The brass lamp
glimmers in the darkness, creaking as it swings. Against the white
wall the Steward's whiter apron sways like a ghost, fluttering in some
eddy of draught. In the tiny pantry the cups clink softly on their
hooks. And outside the storm-wind whistles in demoniac fury.

Across the room a narrow slit of light shows where the Fourth's room
is hooked ajar. I go across and peer in. He is on watch, of course,
and there is no one there. But all round I see littered the belongings
of George's successor. A quiet, likeable Glasgow laddie, as I know him
yet. He has put up his bunk curtains, and as they sway I catch a
glimpse of a portrait. And so? Who can blame me if I look searchingly
into the eyes of the girl with ribbon in her hair and a silver cross
on her breast? And just beneath the narrow gold frame, swinging on a
screw, there is a coloured paper design, which I know emanates from
the Order of the Sacred Heart. It is an indulgence for one hundred
days, and it has been blessed by the Vicar of Christ. Yes, and the
laddie will have one on his breast, next the skin, as he stands by the
throttle down below. And when we are half a world away from the parish
church, he will be mindful of the tonsured man who gave him these; he
will read the little red Prayer Book, and he will be ill at ease on
Friday when we pass him the salt fish.

Glancing at an old cigar-box full of letters, I go out softly and hook
the door.

For all the darkness and the rushing water it is close, and I go up
and struggle desperately with the teak door, biding my time until the
waters surge back to the rail. The door crashes to again, and I
struggle on to the poop. To my amazement there are