McNulty growled a retort and glanced at Pritt who owned the cargo and ship. “The Chinook is ready to take us as usual, Mr. Pritt.”
Pritt swore with feeling. Then he swore again as the radio operator appeared with a weather report predicting a bad blow within a few hours. McNulty put to sea. This was no coast to be caught in a blow. Pritt ventured a suggestion. “The cutter is riding light and we are loaded. We can stand rougher weather than the Chinook; why not try to run in after she’s hunted shelter?”
“Not off this coast, sir,” McNulty replied. He sniffed the air, believing his sense more reliable than a weather report. “A man needs room in bad weather. If we crashed on a reef——”
“Ship and cargo are insured against perils of the sea,” Pritt interrupted.
McNulty scowled fiercely. Pritt flushed. McNulty clipped his words. “Let me remind you, sir, I am a sailor first. There are certain codes a real sailor never forgets. There’s saving human lives; and there’s sailing your ship whether she’s a great liner with hundreds of passengers or a fishing schooner. Never forget that, Mr. Pritt.”
Pritt watched the coast line slip over the horizon. Ahead everything was black and the men were making things secure. Queer people, these sailors, he reflected. He had met many of the old school. They were all the same, respecting codes time had handed down. Yes, and stubborn. Old Wold was stubborn in his determination to prevent the Crayton from landing her cargo. McNulty, though he was none too keen about the job, was determined to see it through now that he had agreed to Pritt’s proposition.
An hour later the storm was upon them. Great seas crashed over the deck; the woodwork creaked and groaned as the vessel labored. McNulty paced a spray-drenched bridge. He was dressed in oilskins and the face peering from beneath the sou’wester was ruddy and glowing with the joy of battle. The blue eyes peered into the darkness and saw many things denied the landsmen. The flesh about the eyes was lined and seamed from many years squinting, for phantom ships leap unexpectedly from the fog; phantom reefs bare their fangs on stormy nights and the sailor’s only guess must be the right guess.
With this man on the bridge a sense of security stole over Pritt. He retired to his bunk, snuggled in the warmth of the blankets and listened to the roar of the storm and the break of the seas against the riveted walls. The pulsations of the engine lulled him to sleep.
It was the change in the engine room rhythm that awakened him. Sensing the unusual, Pritt dressed hastily. The Crayton was wallowing in a troubled sea. Sounds that the engine usually stilled became audible; spray hissed; waves broke and rushed into an inky night. “What’s the trouble, Captain. Coast Guarder?”
The Coast Guard vessels were a nightmare to Pritt. The storm might have driven them within the twelve mile limit.