“I can steer good. Honest, Still. You see.”
“Don't mind that,” said Still apologetically to Calhoun, “but 'twouldn't be right to leave him alone, sir.”
“I'll stay here,” said Calhoun.
“Ve'y good, sir.”
He hurried away. Calhoun sat down, with his back to me and his feet braced on the rail.
After all there was nothing difficult about it. I slipped the little black iron to its place, in the binnacle, to the left of the compass. It went in too far, so that the needle swung to east by south, and I had to pull the iron back. The needle lay trembling at right angles with the ship, and I began to turn the wheel nervously.
“The fellow I was telling you of,” remarked Calhoun without looking around, “he took his time, so as not to disturb anyone. He didn't fidget. He kept his eye on the compass, counted eight points, and turned the wheel back.”
The ship swung softly and steadily; the needle crept from point to point, till the quarter was covered. Still came along the deck, looming in the mist and puffing his pipe.
“Hold her steady, Bennie,” he said. “Seaman's duty.”
And there was nothing in the white sea-fog to betray; Calhoun's back was as non-committal as the fog; the little black iron with its ghost inside it lay on the shelf in the binnacle silently too.