“See the palms now, Tuan.”
Captain Whalley strode forward to the rail; but his eyes, instead of
going straight to the point, with the assured keen glance of a sailor,
wandered irresolutely in space, as though he, the discoverer of new
routes, had lost his way upon this narrow sea.
Another white man, the mate, came up on the bridge. He was tall, young,
lean, with a mustache like a trooper, and something malicious in the
eye. He took up a position beside the engineer. Captain Whalley, with
his back to them, inquired--
“What’s on the log?”
“Eighty-five,” answered the mate quickly, and nudged the engineer with
his elbow.
Captain Whalley’s muscular hands squeezed the iron rail with an
extraordinary force; his eyes glared with an enormous effort; he knitted
his eyebrows, the perspiration fell from under his hat,--and in a
faint voice he murmured, “Steady her, Serang--when she is on the proper
bearing.”
The silent Malay stepped back, waited a little, and lifted his arm
warningly to the helmsman. The wheel revolved rapidly to meet the swing
of the ship. Again the mate nudged the engineer. But Massy turned upon
him.
“Mr. Sterne,” he said violently, “let me tell you--as a shipowner--that
you are no better than a confounded fool.”