When Gaskin placed the soup on the table, Madden became aware that the
dock was rolling rather heavily, for the liquid spilled over the side of
the plate, while dishes and tureens went coasting up and down the
boards.
"Getting rough outside," remarked the lad to the servant, who was
lighting a lamp.
"A bit 'eavier, sir," replied Gaskin self effacingly.
Madden held the soup plate in his hand for steadiness, and sipped the
hot, satisfying liquid while the great dock rose and fell. The fact that
he was really in command of the vast iron fabric put the American in a
serious humor. He ate dinner slowly, listening to the heavy clang of the
waves against the iron hull, and to the wind whining and sobbing over
the great metal sides.
When he had finished his meal, the youth arose with the intention of
going to the sailors' mess house to see about the watches. He had no
sooner stuck his head out of the door, however, than a whisk of spray
leaped at him out of the darkness and drove him inside. He was preparing
to venture out again, when Gaskin opened a locker and brought out an
oilskin.
"Hit'll 'elp you keep dry, sir," holding up the garment.
Swathed in its folds, Madden made a new start and walked out on the
heaving, shifting pontoon.
Outside a renewed noise smote his ears.
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