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At the wheel, in tarpaulin and sou’wester, McLaughlin kept watch. Sea spray kept his cheeks dripping. His coat was glassy with water. Another pilot put his head above deck.

“How are we heading?”

“East by no’.”

“See anything?”

“A steamer, outbound.”

“Which one?”

“The Tauric.”

“Wish she was coming in!” concluded the inquirer, as he went below.

We kept before the wind in this driving way. All the morning and all the afternoon the rain fell. The cook served a wholesome meal of meats and vegetables, and afterwards all pipes were set smoking more industriously than ever. The two old pilots renewed their cards. Every one turned to trifling diversions, with the feeling that he must get comfort out of them. It was a little drowsy, a little uncomfortable, a little apt to make one long for shore. In the midst of the lull the voice of the man at the wheel sounded at the companionway.

“Steamer on the port bow! Pilot-boat Number Nine! She’s hailing us.”

“Well, what does she want?”

“Can’t make out yet.”