'A fine night, sir.'
Blood took a devious way to his ends, by an answer that applied a test. 'I see the wind has changed.'
'Ay,' the ship–master answered with alacrity. 'It was uncommon sudden. It's come to blow hard from the south.'
'That'll be delaying us in making Port Royal.'
'If it holds. But maybe it'll change again.'
'Maybe it will,' said Blood. 'We'll pray for it.'
Pacing together; they had come to the rail. They leaned upon it, and looked down at the dark water and the white, luminous edge of the wave that curled away from the ship's flank.
Blood made philosophy. 'A queer, uncertain life, this seafaring life, Tim, at the mercy of every wind that blows, driving us now in one direction, now in another, sometimes helping, sometimes hindering, and sometimes defeating and destroying us. I suppose you love your life, Tim?'
'What a question! To be sure I love my life.'
'And ye'll have the fear of death that's common to us all?'