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 "Mouse" with a frayed end of manilla, trying vainly to make Mother evince a spark of interest. Paul thought of Becky's black baby whom he had once tried so hard to visualize in heaven—a little coon angel! Would the old cat sit blinking on the fife-rail if her piccaninny should pounce a few inches too far and go shooting through the scupper hole?

From the grating which ran forward from the poop to the standard compass, Paul suddenly noticed the old man frowning down at him.

"What about my tea, steward?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir, in a minute. It's drawing."

This was inaccurate, but the young steward was confident of being able to smuggle the empty teapot to the galley under his loose jacket. Just so, a young organist had known how to improvise a modulation bridging his private reverie with the celebration of a rite.

On and on, striving toward the south but ever frustrated by winds which made it necessary to veer south-south-west or south-east-by-east. Paul had mastered the psychology of those that go down to the sea in ships and was no longer surprised to hear his mates curse the old man in one breath for making them unbend stout sails and replace them by worn, fair-weather sails, then, in the next breath, commend him for his thrift. And when, after thoughtful examination of some speck on the horizon, the old man gave an order to take in the royals and topgallantsails, and perhaps even the foresail and mainsail, Paul knew that the incarnadined phrases dropped by the men clambering up the shrouds like tired gorillas, while ostensibly aimed at the old man's head, were in reality meant for the capriciousness of fate. The expedition with which they took in sail proved deep