Finally a bleary dawn whitened his cabin ports and the lad scrambled
into damp clothes, picked up the mate's battered telescope and went on
deck.
He fully expected to see the _Vulcan_ lying close by, but as he
glanced around in the dull light, an extraordinary scene shunted all
thoughts of the tug from his mind. The wind had lulled, but there still
rolled high a most unusual ocean. As far as he could see moved a long
solemn procession of hills covered with splotches and serpentine lines
of grays, olives, yellows--an ocean in motley. The great waves wove
these sinuous markings up and down, in and out, confusing the eye with
changing mazes.
Madden went forward and studied the nearer formations under the dock's
prow. This astonishing effect was caused by seaweed. It was the seaweed
spray of this seaweed ocean that had whipped him during the night.
A glance toward the stern of the dock solved the mystery of the balky
steering gear. The temporary sheathing was choked with the slimy stuff.
Tons of it had beaten over into the dock so that there was a week's work
of cleaning ahead. The whole interior of the pontoons looked gutted;
empty kegs, barrels had gone overboard, boats had been washed away, the
big coal pile was scattered like pebbles and some half of it lost.
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