'It's better up here than down below, sir,' said Finch, apologetically.
'You're right,' said Hornblower, with a disinterested intonation which would discourage conversation.
He turned away to ignore Finch, settled his bark again comfortably, and allowed the steady swing of the top to mesmerize him into dreamy thought that might deal with his problem. Yet it was not easy, for Finch was as restless almost as a squirrel in a cage, peering forward, changing his position, and so continually breaking in on Hornblower's train of thought, wasting the minutes of his precious half-hour of freedom.
'What the devil's the matter with you, Finch?' he rasped at last, patience quite exhausted.
'The Devil, sir?' said Finch. 'It isn't the Devil. He's not up here, begging your pardon, sir.'
That weak mysterious grin again, like a mischievous child. A great depth of secrets lay in those strange blue eyes. Finch peered under the topsail again; it was a gesture like a baby's playing peep-bo.
'There!' said Finch. 'I saw him that time, sir. God's come back to the maintop, sir.'
'God?'
'Aye indeed, sir. Sometimes He's in the maintop. More often than not, sir. I saw Him that time, with His beard all a-blowing in the wind. 'Tis only from here that you can see Him, sir.'
What could be said to a man with that sort of delusion? Hornblower racked his brains for an answer, and found none. Finch seemed to have forgotten his presence, and was playing peep-bo again under the foot of the mizzen-topsail.