“Well, sir, we should see the Vulcan before night, sir. She’s had good weather from Queenstown.”
“Yes. Keep a sharp lookout, Johnson.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain moodily paced the bridge with his head down.
“I ought to have turned back to New York,” he said to himself.
Then he went down to his own room, avoiding the passengers as much as he could, and had the steward bring him some beef-tea. Even a captain cannot live on anxiety.
“Steamer off the port bow, sir,” rang out the voice of the lookout at the prow. The man had sharp eyes, for a landsman could have seen nothing.
“Run and tell the captain,” cried Johnson to the sailor at his elbow, but as the sailor turned the captain’s head appeared up the stairway. He seized the glass and looked long at a single point in the horizon.
“It must be the Vulcan,” he said at last.
“I think so, sir.”