deck, drenching his feet. He climbed the ladder, rather amused at the recurrence of an old thought—that climbing ship ladders in dirty weather was a good deal like climbing in nightmares: one weighed thousands of pounds and had feet of lead.

Presently he peered into the chart room, which 142 was dark except for the small hooded bulbs over the navigating instruments. He could see the chin and jaws of the wheelman and the beard of old Captain Newton. From time to time a wheel spoke came into the light.

142

On the chart table lay a pocket lamp, facing sternward, the light pouring upon what looked to be a map; and over it were bent three faces, one of which was Cunningham’s. A forefinger was tracing this map.

Dennison opened the door and stepped inside.

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CHAPTER XII

“How are you making out, Newton?” he asked, calmly.

“Denny? Why, God bless me, boy, I’m glad to see you! How’s your dad?”

“Reading.”

“That would be like him. I don’t suppose if hell opened under his feet he’d do anything except look interested. And it ’pears to me’s though hell had opened up right now!”

A chuckle came from the chart table.

“What’s your idea of hell, Newton?” asked Cunningham.

“Anything you might have a hand in,” was the return bolt.

“Why, you used to like me!”

“Yes, yes! But I didn’t know you then. The barometer’s dropping. If it was August I’d say we were nosing into a typhoon. I always hated this yellow muck they call a sea over here. Did you pick up that light?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the wheelman. “I take it she’s making south—Hong-Kong way. There’s 144 plenty of sea room. She’ll be well down before we cross her wake.”

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