The Captain slept the clock around, and woke at noon; and he woke in the after-grip of the whisky he had drunk. His body was burning and sick and sore; his eyes were hot as coals in his head; his lips were parched and swollen, and his mouth did not taste like his own mouth to him. He woke, and groaned, and rolled to the floor and dressed himself; and in a black mood he came out into the cabin and found whisky and drank again.
The reaction from his battle with the storm affected Black Pawl in two ways. His soul was sunk in a vast depression; he could see no light nor glory in the world. But his body was hot with the intoxication of victory, and a more tangible drunkenness. He was in a mood to damn the world; and when he saw Red Pawl, he hated his son; and when he saw Ruth Lytton, he cursed her in his heart. Sight of Red Pawl brought back his old misery of disappointment in this man whom he had fashioned. Sight of the girl brought back the memory of the picture she had made in Dan Darrin’s arms. Why should it be Dan Darrin? Was he not a better man than Darrin? The girl was a fool. She could never be afraid of him, she had said. He told himself she might be taught that fear.
On deck, Black Pawl found fault with the fashion of one of Red Pawl’s orders to the men; and Red answered him hotly. Black Pawl knocked him down with a furious blow. Red Pawl picked himself up and nursed his anger; and the Captain hated Red, and hated himself the more, and hated the world most of all. There was no laughter in him to-day; he was ghastly white, his eyes sank in their sockets—not a man to cross with impunity.
The girl watched him commiseratingly; and once she came to him and said: “Cap’n Pawl, don’t you want to go below, and sleep? You do need the rest, you know.”
“I’m sick of sleeping,” he told her curtly.
The missionary joined his urgency to the girl’s. “You’ll be ill, sir,” he said. “You’ve won the fight; the ship’s safe. Take your rest.”
Black Pawl jeered at him. “Keep to your gods, Father,” he said. “What do you know of the needs of men?”
“I know that men need God,” said the missionary. “And—never man more than you, Black Pawl.”
“Get out of my way,” Black Pawl commanded. “I spurn your God!” And as the missionary moved quietly to one side, he added with a hint of the old mockery: “Now, there, Father. If there were a God, would He not strike me down for that blasphemy?”
“God strikes when He wills,” said the missionary. “It is never necessary to dare Him.”