As each tremendous breaker thundered
on her stern each time she lifted to the underswell, the pilot vowed
that she had struck, rolling his eyes and calling two different deities
to witness that none of it was any fault of his.
"Thar's no water, sah--no water, Captain, sah--not one drop! You've
piled up you-ah ship! Ah told you so; Ah said--"
"By the deep--four!"
"And a half-four!"
"By the mark--five!"
The Puncher was across the bar, gliding through muddy water on an
even keel and giving the lie direct to him whose fee was ten pounds
English. The pilot drew a talisman of some kind from underneath the
least torn portion of his shirt, and to the commander's amazement
kissed it. It is not often that a woolly headed, or any other, native
of the East kisses either folk or things. But the commander was too
busy at the moment to ask questions.
"Have your starboard anchor ready!" he commanded, making mental notes.
"Ready, sir!"
The glittering, wet, wind-blown beach and the little estuary slid
by like a painted panorama smelling of all the evil in the world
as the Puncher eased her helm a time or two seeking a comfortable
berth with Joe Byng's chanted aid.
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