Seated on an anchor caked with drying mud—an anchor that had been heaved on deck and made fast after much grunting, yo-hoing and pushing of breasts against capstan bars—Paul gazed far ahead, beyond the fat, steel bowsprit, beyond the foamy grey waves that advanced at a slant, towards a narrow, horizontal strip of blue above which stretched a wall of mist surmounted by clusters of cloud that looked like wash-drawings of gigantic balls of lint swept up on a carpet. Straight for that turquoise rift, straining and creaking, careening with great stately lunges, raising a starboard shoulder to avoid the hissing crests of the waves, then swerving broadly to port as she dipped into the ensuing hollows, the Clytemnestra drove on and on, patiently, grimly, loyally, too engrossed in her efforts to be eager, yet too intent on her goal to dally.
Once she even rebuked the helmsman. When he put the wheel over too hard, so that she was forced a point closer to the wind—a point that threatened to stifle her breath—she sent back a hasty warning by flapping her jib and fore upper top-gallantsail, then quivered with relief when the wheel went spinning back and disaster was averted. Paul turned, narrowed his eyes, gazed in righteous disapproval down the length of the ship, then grunted understandingly, for it was the new man, the beery hobo, who was not as familiar with the art of
