"I trust you navigate your soul more skilfully than you would
navigate this vessel," retorted the Captain. "In the first place,
the needle does not point to the North Pole at all, but to the
magnetic pole. Furthermore, it has to be adjusted by magnets to
counteract deviation. Mr. Gissing, you may be a sincere student
of theology, but you have not allowed for your own temperamental
deviation. Why, even the gyro compass has to be adjusted for
latitude error. You landsmen think that a ship is simply a
floating hotel. I should like to have the Bishop you spoke of
study a little navigation. That would put into him a healthy
respect for the marvels of science. On board ship, sir, the
binnacle is kept locked and the key is on the watch-chain of the
master. It should be so in all intellectual matters. Confide them
to those capable of understanding."

Gissing saw that the Captain greatly relished his sense of
superiority, so he made a remark of intentional simplicity.

"The binnacle?" he said. "I thought that was the little shellfish
that clings to the bottom of the boat?"

"Don't you dare call my ship a BOAT!" said the Captain. "At sea,
a boat means only a lifeboat or some other small vagabond craft.
Come out on the bridge and I'll show you a thing or two."

The evening had closed in hazy, and the Pomerania swung steadily
in a long plunging roll. At the weather wing of the bridge,
gazing sharply over the canvas dodger, was Mr. Pointer, the
vigilant Chief Officer, peering off rigidly, as though
mesmerized, but saying nothing. He gave the Captain a courteous