"Not much good, I'm afraid," said Jenkins. "Lord knows where we are, but we're more than fifty miles from land."
"That as far as you can reason?" broke in Forsythe. "Jenkins, you're handy at a knockdown, but if you can't use what brain you've got, you'd better resign command here. I don't know who elected you, anyhow."
"Are you looking for more, Forsythe?" asked Jenkins, taking a step toward him. "If you are, you can have it. If not, get down to your studies, and find out where this craft is, so we can get somewhere."
Forsythe, hiding his emotions under a forced grin, retreated toward the fore-hatch.
"I can give you the latitude," he said, before descending, "by a meridian observation this noon. I picked up the method in one lesson this morning. But I tell you fellows, I'm tired of getting knocked down."
Jenkins watched him descend, then said to Casey: "Fake up a message claiming to be from some ship with a jumbled name, as you say, and be ready to send it if he gets our position."
"Then you think well of it?"
"Certainly. Forsythe has brains. The only trouble with him is that he wants to run things too much."
Casey, a smooth-faced, keen-eyed Irish-American, descended to consult with his confrère, Munson; and Forsythe appeared, swinging a book. Laying this on the bridge stairs, he passed Jenkins and walked aft.
"Where are you going?" asked the latter.