In a few moments he was back with the news that Forsythe had profanely denied the request. Whereat Denman's heart hardened the more.
He remained quiet until two bells—nine o'clock—had struck, then went out and approached the after door, just in time to see Florrie's shadow pass across the glass as she mounted the stairs. He waited, and in about five minutes she came down, and, no doubt seeing his shadow on the door, tapped gently. He promptly opened it, and she said:
"Leave the door open and I will throw you my things in a minute. They are drinking up there."
"Drinking!" he mused, as he waited. "Well, perhaps I can get a gun if they drink to stupidity."
Soon Florrie's hand opened the door, and the garments came through. Denman had little trouble now in donning them, and, with his head tied up as before, he passed through the captain's apartment to the deck. It was a mild, sunshiny morning, with little wind, and that from the northeast. White globes of cloud showed here and there, and Denman knew them for the unmistakable sign of the trade winds. But he was more interested in matters on deck. All hands except Billings, who was singing in the galley, and Munson, one of the wireless men, were clustered around the forward funnel; and there were several bottles circulating around. Forsythe, with a sextant in his hand, was berating them.
"Go slow, you infernal ginks," he snarled at them, "or you'll be so drunk in an hour that you won't know your names. Ready—in there, Munson?"
"Yes," answered Munson from the pilot-house.
Forsythe put the sextant to his eye, and swept it back and forth for a few moments.
"Time," he called suddenly, and, lowering the sextant, looked in on Munson.
"Got it?" asked Munson.