The skipper moved impatiently, made noises in his throat, rose, and both went out.  The mate, who had been chewing and looking at nothing all the time, chuckled.

The mate pulled off his big boots, and climbed into his bunk.  The steward cleared the table.  I had the saloon to myself, and tried to read from a magazine I extracted from my pillow.  The first story was rollicking of the sea, and I have never seen more silly or such dreary lies in print.  And the others were about women, magazine women, and the land, that magazine land which is not of this earth.  The bench still heaved, and there was a new smell of sour pickles.  I think a jar had upset in a store cupboard.  Perhaps I should feel happier in the wheel-house.  It was certain the wheel-house would not smell of vinegar, boots, and engine oil.  It would have its own disadvantages—­it would be cold and damp—­and the wind and seas on the lively deck had to be faced on the way to it.  The difficulty there is in placing the second course on London’s cosy dinner-tables began to surprise me.

Our wooden shelter, the wheel-house, is ten feet above the deck, with windows through which I could look at the night, and imagine the rest.  I had, to support me, the mono-syllabic skipper and a helmsman with nothing to say.  I saw one of them when, drawing hard on his pipe, its glow outlined a bodyless face.  The wheel chains rattled in their channels.  There was a clang when a sea wrenched the rudder.  I clung to a window-strap, flung back to look upwards through a window which the ship abruptly placed above my head, then thrown forward to see wreaths of water speeding below like ghosts.  The stars jolted back and forth in wide arcs.  There were explosions at the bows, and the ship trembled and hesitated.  Occasionally the skipper split the darkness with a rocket, and we gazed round the night for an answer.  The night had no answer to give.  We were probably nearing the North Pole.  About midnight, the silent helmsman put away his pipe, as a preliminary to answering a foolish question of mine, and said, “Sometimes it happens.  It’s bound to.  You can see for ye’self.  They’re little things, these trawlers.  Just about last Christmas—­wasn’t it about Christmas-time, Skipper?—­the Mavis left the fleet to go home.  Boilers wrong.  There was one of our hands, Jim Budge, who was laid up, and he reckoned he’d better get home quick.  So he joined her.  We were off the Tail of the Dogger, and it blew that night.  Next morning Jim’s mate swore Jim’s bunk had been laid in.  It was wet.  He said the Mavis had gone.  I could see the bunk was wet all right, but what are ventilators for?  Chance it, the Mavis never got home.  A big sea to flood the engine-room, and there she goes.”

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