Poking his head into the wheel-house, he bellowed above the storm: "How's she go?"
"Seen worse'n 'er," the skipper shouted back.
"Ought to be at the spot we started for in half an hour—that island on the old chart."
"Never was no island," the skipper roared.
"Maybe not."
"Supposin' we get there, what then?"
"Don't know yet."
The skipper stared at Curlie for a full moment as if attempting to determine whether he were insane, then turned in silence to his wheel.
The wind blew the door shut and Curlie resumed his long-legged, short-legged march.
He had done three turns around the deck when his eyes caught a small figure crumpled up on the pile of ropes forward.