Читать книгу The Captain from Connecticut онлайн

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"Well, good-bye, then. The best of good fortune, Captain Peabody."

The two men shook hands in their heavy furred gloves. Peabody raised his voice against the storm--it was a penetrating voice, nasal yet with a tenor musical tone which somehow made it more readily audible against the wind.

"Call the Commodore's gig. Pipe the side for the Commodore," he said.

"Compliments in this weather?" asked the Commodore, a little surprised, but Peabody gave him no explanation. He was not going to allow a blizzard to interfere with the decent and proper routine of his ship.

The figures huddling for shelter under the bulwark came to life and scuttled across the deck and down into the gig. Other figures, black against the snowy deck, came swarming up from below. It was strange and unnatural that their feet made no sound on the deck. They were like ghosts in their noiselessness, treading the thick carpet of snow. Not even the marines, in their heavy shoes, made any sound. Feebly the pipes of the boatswain's mates twittered in the shrieking wind as the Commodore went over the side down into his waiting gig. Peabody watched him down to the boat, saw the bowman cast off the painter, and then turned back to face the wind again.