“This exceedingly damn dangerous place, sah!” he remarked.
“No bottom at eight!” sang Joe Byng in the chains.
Three words passed between the commander and Crothers, and the Puncher hove a weed-draped underside high over the crest of a beam-on roller as she veered a dozen points, ducked her starboard rail into the trough of it, and sliced her long thin nose, sizzling and swirling, into the welter ahead. It was growing weedier and dirtier each minute.
“No bottom at eight!” chanted Joe Byng.
And at the sound of his voice the pilot hauled himself up by his leverage on the rail and found his voice again.
“This most exceedingly damn dangerous place, sah!”
But the commander was too busy acting all three L's—Log, Lead and Lookout—his shrouded figure swaying to the heave and fall and his eyes fixed straight ahead of him on the double line of boiling foam. He had conned his course and had it charted in his head. There was no time to argue with a pilot.
“Port you-ah hel-um, sah! Port you-ah hel-um!”
“By the mark—seven!” sang Joe Byng from the chains.
“Port you-ah hel-um, sah!” yelled the pilot in an ecstasy of fright.