“Don't stand up in the boats,” megaphoned Gissing. “You're quite all right, there's a ship on the way already. I wirelessed last night.”
He slid the telegraph to SLOW, HALF, and then FULL. Once more the ship creamed through the lifting purple swells. The little flock of boats was soon out of sight.
Alone at the wheel, he realized that a great weight was off his mind. The responsibility of his position had burdened him more than he knew. Now a strange eagerness and joy possessed him. His bubbling wake cut straight and milky across the glittering afternoon. In a ruddy sunset glow, the sea darkened through all tints of violet, amethyst, indigo. The horizon line sharpened so clearly that he could distinguish the tossing profile of waves wetting the sky. “A red sky at night is the sailor's delight,” he said to himself. He switched on the port and starboard lights and the masthead lanterns, then lashed the wheel while he went below for supper. He did not know exactly where he was, for he seemed to have steamed clean off the chart; but as he conned the helm that evening, and leaned over the lighted binnacle, he had a feeling that he was not far
