“A gale is a gale, Mr. Jukes,” resumed the Captain, “and a full-powered steam-ship has got to face it.  There’s just so much dirty weather knocking about the world, and the proper thing is to go through it with none of what old Captain Wilson of the Melita calls ‘storm strategy.’  The other day ashore I heard him hold forth about it to a lot of shipmasters who came in and sat at a table next to mine.  It seemed to me the greatest nonsense.  He was telling them how he outmanoeuvred, I think he said, a terrific gale, so that it never came nearer than fifty miles to him.  A neat piece of head-work he called it.  How he knew there was a terrific gale fifty miles off beats me altogether.  It was like listening to a crazy man.  I would have thought Captain Wilson was old enough to know better.”

Captain MacWhirr ceased for a moment, then said, “It’s your watch below, Mr. Jukes?”

Jukes came to himself with a start.  “Yes, sir.”

“Leave orders to call me at the slightest change,” said the Captain.  He reached up to put the book away, and tucked his legs upon the couch.  “Shut the door so that it don’t fly open, will you?  I can’t stand a door banging.  They’ve put a lot of rubbishy locks into this ship, I must say.”

Captain MacWhirr closed his eyes.

He did so to rest himself.  He was tired, and he experienced that state of mental vacuity which comes at the end of an exhaustive discussion that has liberated some belief matured in the course of meditative years.  He had indeed been making his confession of faith, had he only known it; and its effect was to make Jukes, on the other side of the door, stand scratching his head for a good while.

Captain MacWhirr opened his eyes.

He thought he must have been asleep.  What was that loud noise?  Wind?  Why had he not been called?  The lamp wriggled in its gimbals, the barometer swung in circles, the table altered its slant every moment; a pair of limp sea-boots with collapsed tops went sliding past the couch.  He put out his hand instantly, and captured one.

Jukes’ face appeared in a crack of the door:  only his face, very red, with staring eyes.  The flame of the lamp leaped, a piece of paper flew up, a rush of air enveloped Captain MacWhirr.  Beginning to draw on the boot, he directed an expectant gaze at Jukes’ swollen, excited features.

“Came on like this,” shouted Jukes, “five minutes ago . . . all of a sudden.”

The head disappeared with a bang, and a heavy splash and patter of drops swept past the closed door as if a pailful of melted lead had been flung against the house.  A whistling could be heard now upon the deep vibrating noise outside.  The stuffy chart-room seemed as full of draughts as a shed.  Captain MacWhirr collared the other sea-boot on its violent passage along the floor.  He was not flustered, but he could not find at once the opening for inserting his foot.  The shoes he had flung off were scurrying from end to end of the cabin, gambolling playfully over each other like puppies.  As soon as he stood up he kicked at them viciously, but without effect.