The mud pilot came to the old Captain's side.
"Captain," he said, "that man's drunk."
The old man shuddered a little. "Don't make a noise," he said. "He— he was married to-day."
"Aye." The pilot shook his head. "You know me, Captain; it's not me that would give a son of yours away. But I can't let him bump her about. He isn't you at handling a steamship, and he's drunk."
The old Captain turned to him. "Help me out," he said. "Pilot, give me a help in this. I'll stand by him and handy to the telegraph. We'll get her through all right. There's that crowd on the dock"—he signed to the festive guests—"waiting to see him off, and we mustn't make a show of him. And his wife's aboard."
The pilot nodded shortly. "I'm willing."
Arthur, leaning on the rail, was cursing the dock boat at the buoy. The lock was waiting for them, and he lurched to the telegraph, slammed the handle over with a clatter and rang for steam. The pilot and the old man leaned quickly to the indicator; he had ordered full speed ahead.
"Stop her!" snapped the pilot as the decks beneath them pulsed to the awakening engines. Arthur's hand was yet on the handle, but the old man's grip on his wrist was firm, and the bell below clanged again. The young Captain wheeled on them furiously.
"Get off my brish," he shouted. "Down with you, th' pair of you." He made to advance on them, those two square old shipmen; he projected a general ruin; but his feet were not his own. He reeled against the rail.
"Port your helm!" commanded the pilot calmly. "Slow ahead!" Old Captain Price rang for him and they began to draw out. Ashore the wedding guests were a flutter of waving handkerchiefs and hats. They thanked God Minnie was not on the bridge. At the rail, Arthur lolled stupidly and seemed to be fighting down a nausea.