"No," he answered; "I'll try it a spell."
Medbury cast an uneasy look aloft at the maintopsail. In the murky light he could see it bellied out like a great bowl.
"It's that topsail makes her steer hard," he cried in an aggrieved tone.
Captain March did not glance up.
"Yes," he shouted; "but I guess it's drawing some."
Medbury looked at him sharply, and then turned away, grinning.
"Well, I guess it is!" he muttered to himself. "The old pirate!"
He made his way to the topsail-sheet, and shook it; it was like a rod of iron.
"Couldn't budge it, if I wanted to," he said to himself. "I wonder how long that sail's going to stand all this."
He started forward, shot in under the lee of the center-house as a great green sea came over the rail, and, dripping, mounted to the forecastle-deck. The lookout stood with his arms clasped about the capstan-head, staring straight ahead. In his yellow oilskins, he had the look of a wooden man, washed by the seas, immobile, without sensation.