"I make it 49-52 and 179-58! We're near the Aleutians and close to the one hundred and eightieth meridian!"
Cushner glanced at the sun. "We're about that!" he said with Yankee shrewdness. "I can smell my position in these waters. I smell shore stuff—fish and moss."
"It comes down the wind!" snorted the cockney with a burst of disgust.
"All the same, I don't need no sextant. All I need is a lead line and experience."
Whitehouse gulped at this and worked his brows up and down like a gorilla, then turned toward the after part of the ship. "Seen the skipper?" he asked. "Seen the old man? 'E's been shaved—'e 'as! 'E looks fine—'e does!"
"Shaved?" exclaimed Stirling, wheeling and staring at the quarter-deck. "What do you mean? Has he taken off his beard?"
"You're blym well right, 'e 'as! I wouldn't know 'im! Looks like a regular, 'e does. All spick and span. 'E was askin' about our position not a bell ago. 'E's expectin' to meet with something on these seas. Likely it will be another ship!"
"You and he are rather thick," suggested Stirling.
"As thick as costermongers—once! Now 'e's retired from view like a loidy of the music 'alls. I don't know what to think."
The mate was evidently in earnest, and Stirling eyed him sharply, then turned away and stared at Cushner. The Yankee hitched up his beard and thrust it under the collar of his soiled pea-jacket—then started as he glared toward the poop.