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Hornblower looked at his watch and raised his voice in a shout to the sentry at the door.

'Pass the word for Mr Bush.'

Hornblower could hear the sentry shouting, and the word being passed on along the quarter-deck. Hotspur rose in a long, long, pitch with hardly any roll about it. She was meeting the long Atlantic swell now, changing her motion considerably, and all for the better, in Hornblower's opinion--and his sea-sickness was rapidly coming under control. Bush was taking a long time to respond to the call--he obviously was not on the quarter-deck, and the chances were he was taking a nap or was engaged on some other private business. Well, it would do him no harm and cause him no surprise to be summoned from it, for that was the way of the Navy.

At last came the knock on the door, and Bush entered.

'Sir?'

'Ah, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower pedantically. Bush was the closest friend he had, but this was a formal matter, to be carried through formally. 'Can you tell me the ship's position at this moment?'