"This organized conspiracy on your part," the capstan gurgled, taking his cue from the mast.
"Organized bubbles and spindrift! There has been a depression in the Gulf of Mexico. Excuse me!" He leaped overside; but his friends took up the tale one after another.
"Which has advanced—" That wave threw green over the funnel.
"As far as Cape Hatteras—" He drenched the bridge.
"And is now going out to sea—to sea—to sea!" He went out in three surges, making a clean sweep of a boat, which turned bottom up and sank in the darkening troughs alongside.
"That's all there is to it," seethed the broken water, roaring through the scuppers. "There's no animus in our proceedings. We're a meteorological corollary."
"Is it going to get any worse?" said the bow anchor, chained down to the deck, where he could only breathe once in five minutes.
"Not knowing, can't say. Wind may blow a bit by midnight. Thanks awfully. Good-by."
The wave that spoke so politely had travelled some distance aft, and got itself all mixed up on the deck amidships, which was a well deck sunk between high bulwarks. One of the bulwark plates, which was hung on hinges to open outward, had swung out, and passed the bulk of the water back to the sea again with a wop.
"Evidently that's what I'm made for," said the plate, shutting up again with a sputter of pride. "Oh, no, you don't, my friend!"