At this Jukes lost his footing and began to flounder. “I was thinking of our passengers,” he said, in the manner of a man clutching at a straw.
“Passengers?” wondered the Captain, gravely. “What passengers?”
“Why, the Chinamen, sir,” explained Jukes, very sick of this conversation.
“The Chinamen! Why don't you speak plainly? Couldn't tell what you meant. Never heard a lot of coolies spoken of as passengers before. Passengers, indeed! What's come to you?”
Captain MacWhirr, closing the book on his forefinger, lowered his arm and looked completely mystified. “Why are you thinking of the Chinamen, Mr. Jukes?” he inquired.
Jukes took a plunge, like a man driven to it. “She's rolling her decks full of water, sir. Thought you might put her head on perhaps—for a while. Till this goes down a bit—very soon, I dare say. Head to the eastward. I never knew a ship roll like this.”
He held on in the doorway, and Captain MacWhirr, feeling his grip on the shelf inadequate, made up his mind to let go in a hurry, and fell heavily on the couch.
“Head to the eastward?” he said, struggling to sit up. “That's more than four points off her course.”
“Yes, sir. Fifty degrees. . . . Would just bring her head far enough round to meet this. . . .”
Captain MacWhirr was now sitting up. He had not dropped the book, and he had not lost his place.