The Port Rock boat was due _to_ leave her dock. The first mate made his
way to the upper deck. He found his captain in the pilot-house, studying
the barometer.
"Freight all aboard, sir."
"All right," nodded the captain; "but did you hear about the storm flags
being up?"
"So I heard, sir."
"M-m! Close that door. It's cold." The mate closed the door; but almost
immediately the captain raised a window and gazed down the harbor. "It
looks bad to me," he said after a while.
"It is a bad-looking night," assented the mate.
"A wicked night!" barked the captain; and gathering one end of his
moustache between his teeth, began to chew on it.