“Knowing ones,” old salts who have sailed the seas over for a generation or more, also cock an eye to windward now and then, but of course, feel only confidence in their officers and the man who happens just at that time to hold the ship’s destiny in his keeping.
The ship has been kept well crowded with sail, and the wind being fair the run across promises to be a phenomenal one, a promise that pleases all hands.
The middies have had their chance to work the ship in fair weather and foul, but just now the falling barometer promises a night of it that will blow great guns, for the cloud-bank is steadily rising and the wind comes in stronger and stronger squalls.
The ship is sticking her nose deep into huge white billows, but surging ahead the while in splendid manner.
Suddenly a cadet comes aft and reports to the captain:
“The wind is freshening, sir.”
A few seconds after comes the ringing cry of the first lieutenant:
“All hands ahoy to reef topsails.”
In an instant all is seemingly wild excitement on board the good ship, and yet perfect order reigns, for every man knows his duty.
The “executive” takes command, great coats are donned, cap peaks pulled hard down over their eyes, and the middies, acting as sailors, rush for their posts of duty.