Thanks to his bruised ribs, the American had
thus far escaped duty at the wheel. About a week after the pilchard
incident, he reported ready for this service, when a twist of
circumstance rendered it unnecessary.
A long stretch of fair weather had been enjoyed by the dock painters on
a steadily dropping barometer. On this particular day a cold puffy wind
developed out of the northeast, bringing with it a rack of clouds and
spreading a choppy sea below.
From where Madden painted on the corner of the dock, he had a good view
of these chasing waves that rose a moment in the gray seascape, nodded a
white cap, then dropped back into the waste of water.
"Wonder if a storm would affect this old box much?" he queried of
Caradoc.
"Probably have a chance to see," opined Smith, looking out with a
speculative eye. "By the by, what's that?"
Caradoc pointed toward the _Vulcan_, which already exhibited the
motion of the rollers.
Madden looked. A sailor stood on the tug's round stern waving two flags
toward the dock.
The American arose from his work, funneled his hands before his lips and
called to the man, but the spitting wind whisked away his words, and the
sailor went on with his flag.
Madden regarded it attentively a few moments. "He's wig-wagging--wants
to speak to the mate.
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