"I say this," declared Forsythe: "I'm not a navigator, but I can be. But I want it understood. There has got to be a leader—a commander. If you fellows agree, I'll master the navigation and take this boat to the African coast. But I want no half-way work; I want my orders to go, just as I give them. Do you agree? You've gone wrong under Jenkins. Take your choice."
"You're right, Forsythe," said Casey, the wireless man of the starboard watch. "Jenkins is too easy—too careless. Take the job, I say."
"Do you all agree?" yelled Forsythe wildly in his excitement.
"Yes, yes," they acclaimed. "Take charge, and get us out o' these seas. Who wants to be locked up?"
"All right," said Forsythe. "Then I'm the commander. Lift that baby down to the skipper's room with the sick woman, and let them nurse each other. Lift Jenkins out of the wardroom, and stow him in a forecastle bunk. Riley, nurse your engines and save oil, but keep the dynamo going for the wireless; and you, Casey, have you got that message cooked up?"
"I have. All I want is the latitude and longitude to send it from."
"I'll give it to you soon. Get busy, now, and do your share. I must study a little."
The meeting adjourned. Denman, still dazed and with a splitting headache, was assisted aft and below to the spare berth in the captain's quarters, where he sank into unconsciousness with the moaning of the stricken woman in his ears.
Casey went down to his partner and his instruments; Riley and King, with their confrères of the other watch, went down to the engines to "nurse them"; and Forsythe, after Jenkins had been lifted out of the wardroom and forward to a forecastle bunk, searched the bookshelves and the desks of the officers, and, finding what he wanted, went forward to study.
He was apt; he was a high-school graduate who only needed to apply himself to produce results. And Forsythe produced them. As he had promised, he took a meridian observation that day, and in half an hour announced the latitude—thirty-five degrees forty minutes north.