“Eh! what’s that? Too close in are we? How do you know the log ain’t all right?”
“Why, it’s just a matter of calculation of angles,” replied the third mate. “These fins that Mr. Tackle calls timber noggins are set at the wrong angle. You see the sine of the angle, at which this blade meets the water, must be in the same proportion to the cosine of the angle to which it is bent as its tangent is to its secant, see?”
“H’m-m, yes, I see,” growled the skipper; “but why didn’t you mention it before, if you knew it all this time, instead of waiting until we got way in here? Why didn’t you tell Mr. Gantline?” His voice rising with his anger. “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Gantline this when you knew he’d never seen a log like this before? What do you suppose you are here for, anyhow?” he fairly roared. “Go forward, sir; I won’t have such a man for a mate on my ship.”
“Mr. Gantline,” he said, after Joe had gone, “get the lead-line and make a few casts, sir, by yourself,—by yourself, sir,—and then come and tell me how much water we’ve got under us.”
The mate, without any unnecessary disturbance, got out the lead, and, as it was calm and the vessel had no motion, he had no difficulty in making a deep-sea sounding. He was also materially aided by the startling effect of the lead, when he hove it over the side with fifty fathoms of coiled line to follow it. To his great amazement the line suddenly ceased running out after the five-fathom mark had passed over, and it became necessary to heave the remaining forty-five fathoms of coiled line after it, in order not to transmit this startling fact to any one that might be looking on. Then, with a great deal of exertion, he laboriously hauled the forty-five fathoms in again, and then called to Joe to haul in and coil down the rest, and then put the lead away. After this he went quickly aft to the skipper and whispered something in his ear that sounded to the man at the wheel like “Shoal—Barnegat.” The man at the wheel might have been mistaken, and it is only fair to presume that he was, but in a very short time the ship was headed due east again.
As night came on, a slight breeze came through the fog and the ship gathered headway. The captain, who had been walking fore and aft on the quarter in his shirt-sleeves, mopping great beads of perspiration from his forehead, now seemed to be aware of the chilliness of the air and forthwith went below.
The ship made a very quick voyage around Cape Horn, and a year later, when she returned, Mr. Ropesend met Captain Green in his office the morning he arrived.
“How did you like the patent log, captain?” said Mr. Ropesend.
“Mr. Ropesend,” said the captain, in a deep voice that made Gaff look up and recognize his old friend,—“Mr. Ropesend, I don’t believe in these new-fangled logs what’s regulated by timber noggins, no more’n I do in these worthless third mates that’s only good for teaching school.”