“How are you making out, Newton?” he asked, calmly.
“Denny? Why, God bless me, boy, I’m glad to see you! How’s your dad?”
“Reading.”
“That would be like him. I don’t suppose if hell opened under his feet he’d do anything except look interested. And it ’pears to me’s though hell had opened up right now!”
A chuckle came from the chart table.
“What’s your idea of hell, Newton?” asked Cunningham.
“Anything you might have a hand in,” was the return bolt.
“Why, you used to like me!”
“Yes, yes! But I didn’t know you then. The barometer’s dropping. If it was August I’d say we were nosing into a typhoon. I always hated this yellow muck they call a sea over here. Did you pick up that light?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the wheelman. “I take it she’s making south—Hong-Kong way. There’s 144 plenty of sea room. She’ll be well down before we cross her wake.”