"By the deep--four!" warned Joe Byng in a level sing-song.
The two gongs clanged like an echo to him, and the Puncher's speed
was reduced at once to her point, of minimum stability. She rolled
and quivered like a living thing in fear, falling on and off, nosing
out a passage on her own account apparently, and seeming to be
gathering all her strength for one tremendous effort.
"That's bettah, sah! That's bettah, Captain, sah! Go astern! This
he-ah's the bar, sah--damn bad place, the bar, sah! Go astern, sah.
Captain, sah, d'you he-ah me--go astern! Try again, 'nother place
further up, sah. Captain, sah! Over that way; that way thar--that
way, sah!"
He pointed through the sky-flung spray with a trembling finger and
his voice was rich with doleful emphasis, but the commander held his
course and carried on. There seemed neither sympathy nor understanding
on that unsteadiest of ships. Curley Crothers, solemn-faced as Nemesis
and looking half as compassionate, moved his wheel a trifle. Joe
Byng in the chains kept up his even sing-song, expressionless, as
if he were an automatic clock that did not care, but must record the
truth each time his dripping pendulum touched bottom.
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