"Yes; and have it down in black and white." Forsythe made a notation from the sextant on a piece of paper.
"Now, again," said Forsythe, and again he took a sight, shouted, "Time," and made another notation.
Then he went into the pilot-house and Munson came out and made the shortest cut to the nearest bottle.
"He's taken chronometer sights," mused Denman, as he leaned against the companion hood. "Well, he's progressing fast, but there never was a doubt that he is a scholar."
He went down, and through a crack of the door obtained Miss Florrie's permission to keep the cloak and skirt for the morning, as he wanted to see later how the drinking was progressing. Florrie consented, and he went to his room to wait.
As he waited, the sounds above grew ominous. Oaths and loud laughter, shouts, whoops, and grumblings, mingled with Forsythe's angry voice of command, came down to him through the open deadlight. Soon he heard the thumping of human bodies on deck, and knew there was a fight going on.
A fight always appealed to him; and, yielding to this unworthy curiosity, Denman again passed through the captain's quarters, making sure on the way that Florrie was locked in, and reached the deck.
There were two fights in progress, one a stand-up-and-knock-down affair near the pilot-house; the other a wrestling match amidships. He could not recognize the contestants, and, with the thought that perhaps Forsythe was one of them, stepped forward a few feet to observe.
At this moment Billings—the cheerful Billings—came up the galley hatch, no longer cheerful, but morose of face and menacing of gait, as is usual with this type of man when drunk. He spied Denman in his skirt, cloak, hat, and bandage, and, with a clucking chuckle in his throat and a leering grin on his face, made for him.
"Say, old girl," he said, thickly. "Let's have a kiss."