“I suppose it was a mistake,” said Evans, knowing it was not.
The Major sighed, “I can’t say that I care very much for the water.” His face was drawn and tired and there were grayish pouches under his eyes.
“It’s something you have to have in you, I guess. With me it was being a sailor or a farmer. Farming was hard work and so I got to be a sailor.”
“Sometimes one shouldn’t run away from the hard things,” said Major Barkison tightly. “The easy way is not always the best way,” he added with infinite wisdom.
“I guess you’re right at that.”
“Well, I think I shall go downstairs now.” The Major walked unsteadily across the rocking wheelhouse deck. He opened the door and went below.
“Quite a guy, the Major,” the man at the wheel remarked.
“Yes, he seems to be O.K. At least he’s not chicken like some of the ones we’ve carried.”
“No, he seems to be a good guy.”
Evans looked out the window. The weather was consistent. The wind was blowing around twenty miles an hour. There was a thick snow flurry a few miles ahead. He would go by the clock through the snow.