“Then what?” I asked, or, rather, shouted; for all conversation had to be shouted close to ear in that blast of gale.
He shrugged his shoulders, and all of him was eloquent with the unuttered, unmistakable word—“finish.”
At eight this morning Margaret and I struggled up to the poop. And there was that indomitable, iron old man. He had never left the deck all night. His eyes were bright, and he appeared in the pink of well-being. He rubbed his hands and chuckled greeting to us, and took up his reminiscences.
“In ’51, on this same stretch, Miss West, the Flying Cloud, in twenty-four hours, logged three hundred and seventy-four miles under her topgallant-sails. That was sailing. She broke the record, that day, for sail an’ steam.”
“And what are we averaging, Mr. Pike?” Margaret queried, while her eyes were fixed on the main deck, where continually one rail and then the other dipped under the ocean and filled across from rail to rail, only to spill out and take in on the next roll.
“Thirteen for a fair average since five o’clock yesterday afternoon,” he exulted. “In the squalls she makes all of sixteen, which is going some, for the Elsinore.”
“I’d take the crojack off if I had charge,” Margaret criticised.
“So would I, so would I, Miss West,” he replied; “if we hadn’t been six weeks already off the Horn.”
She ran her eyes aloft, spar by spar, past the spars of hollow steel to the wooden royals, which bent in the gusts like bows in some invisible archer’s hands.
“They’re remarkably good sticks of timber,” was her comment.