They let out a howl.
“Now back to yer kennels!”
They slunk away, crowding one another in their effort to get from the range of the weapon which Stubbs still carelessly held pointed at their heels.
It was several days after this that Wilson was pacing the deck alone one night rather later than usual. The sky was filled with big, top-heavy clouds which rolled across the purple, blotting out every now and then 155 the half moon which sprinkled the sea with silver butterflies. The yacht quivered as though straining every timber, but it looked to Wilson a hopeless task ever to run out from under the dark cup and unchanging circumference. It seemed as though one might go on this path through eternity with the silver butterflies ever fluttering ahead into the boundless dark.
He lounged up to Martin at the wheel. The latter, a sturdy, somewhat reserved man, appeared glad to see him and showed evidence of being disturbed about something. He frequently glanced up from the lighted compass before the wheel as though on the point of speaking, but turned back to his task each time, reconsidering his impulse. Finally he cleared his throat and remarked with a fine show of indifference, “Everything been all quiet below, to-day?”
“So far as I know.”
“Been down there lately?”
“No; but the men seemed this morning in unusually good form. More cheerful than they’ve been at all.”
“So?”
For a few moments he appeared engrossed in his work, turning the creaking wheel to the right, the left, and finally steadying it on its true course. Wilson waited. The man had said enough to excite his interest and he knew the best way to induce him to talk more freely was to keep silent.