Dennison was an able seaman. He had been brought up on the sea--seven

years on the first Wanderer and five on the second. He had, in company

with his father, ridden the seven seas. But he had no trade; he hadn't the

money instinct; he would have to stumble upon fortune; he knew no way of

making it. And this knowledge stirred his rancor anew--the father hadn't

played fair with the son.

He gripped the deck-house rail to steady himself, for the wind and rain

caught him head-on.

Then he worked his way slowly along to the bridge. Twice a comber broke on

the quarter and dropped a ton of water, which sloshed about the deck,

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drenching his feet. He climbed the ladder, rather amused at the recurrence

of an old thought--that climbing ship ladders in dirty weather was a good

deal like climbing in nightmares: one weighed thousands of pounds and had

feet of lead.

Presently he peered into the chart room, which was dark except for the

small hooded bulbs over the navigating instruments. He could see the chin

and jaws of the wheelman and the beard of old Captain Newton. From time to

time a wheel spoke came into the light.

On the chart table lay a pocket lamp, facing sternward, the light pouring

upon what looked to be a map; and over it were bent three faces, one of

which was Cunningham's. A forefinger was tracing this map.

Dennison opened the door and stepped inside.




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