And Simcox went below.
"To be a sailor is to be a natural born fool," said Lampert, addressing the bitter and unkindly elements at large, "and to be on board a ship with such a windy gassing crowd, from the old man down to the cook, is very trying. It's very trying."
The wind took off a little later, but the weather was still thickish.
"It's like lookin' through a haystack," grunted Lampert, "but there, bar an island or so there's nothing to speak of in our way. And if the skipper will crack on, and it a week since we saw the sun, it's the owners' look out, not mine."
He spoke with a certain bitterness, as though he would really enjoy being wrecked, in the trust that the Potluck was not insured, and that old Jones would get his certificate cancelled, or at least suspended.
"'Twould give the old ass time to study foreign politics," sneered Lampert, as it breezed up again.
And five minutes' later, while Lampert was lighting his pipe half-way down the cabin stairs, he heard a bellow forward which made him drop thoughts of tobacco.
"Breakers ahead!"
The watch came out on deck and ran aft; and were followed by the watch below in various articles of attire, not calculated to keep them very warm.
The Potluck had been running with the wind nearly dead aft.