The second time I dozed and started again, I heard the captain’s voice close beside us. He was bawling upwards now, to Mr. Waters on the bridge.
Then he pushed me on one side and took my place at the wheel, shouting to the steersman—“I meant the Scotch lad, not that boy.”
“He’s strong enough, and steady too,” was the reply.
They both drove the wheel in silence, and I held on by a coil of heavy rope, and sucked my fingers to warm them, and very salt they tasted. Then the captain left the wheel and turned to me again.
“Are you cold?”
“Rather, sir.”
“You may go below, and see if the cook can spare you a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But first find Mr. Johnson, and send him here.”
“Yes, sir.”