His puny arm, that could raise
perhaps two hundred pounds, was lifted against enemies that could fling
about billions of tons. Without his force, tug and dock would part
company instantly. Each watery mountain that he climbed, each gulf that
he fathomed, was a victory over infinite odds.
However, if the man worked with subtlety, the sea likewise worked with
subtlety. As the long hours of Madden's watch roared by, one thing was
borne in on the youth: the rudder gradually was becoming harder to
manage. Madden thought this was caused by the rising storm and strained
more rigidly against the wheel.
Then, in the latter part of his vigil, an odd thing happened. A blast of
spray struck Madden with some slimy thing that whipped about his neck
and chest and almost tore him from the wheel. With convulsive
repugnance, he jerked it loose and held the clammy stuff toward the
binnacle light. He saw it was seaweed. Presently more strands came
beating down on the spume to sting him.
The youth was crouching in his oilskins for protection, when he was
surprised by a hand laid on his arm. He looked around and saw it was
Deschaillon and the silent Farnol Greer.
"Eet makes bad weather," remarked the Frenchman, peering at the dark
rolling Alps about the dock.
"Good thing both of you came," shouted Madden, turning the tiller over
to the men.
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