On the decks below Gissing heard a bugle blowing gaily, a bright,
persuasive sound.

"Six bells," the Captain said. "I must dress for dinner. Before I
start you potato-peeling, I should like to clear up that little
discussion of ours about Free Will. One or two things you said
interested me."

He paced the bridge for a minute, thinking hard.

"I'll test your sincerity," he said. "To-night you can bunk in
the chart-room. I'll have some dinner sent up to you. I wish you
would write me an essay of, say, two thousand words on the
subject of Necessity."

For a moment Gissing pondered whether it would not be better to
be put in irons and rationed with bread and water. The wind was
freshening, and the Pomerania's sharp bow slid heavily into broad
hills of sea, crashing them into crumbling rollers of suds which
fell outward and hissed along her steep sides. The silent Mr.
Pointer escorted him into the chart-room, a bare, businesslike
place with a large table, a map-cabinet, and a settee. Here,
presently, a steward appeared with excellent viands, and a pen,
ink, and notepaper. After a cautious meal, Gissing felt more
comfortable. There is something about a wet, windy evening at sea
that turns the mind naturally toward metaphysics. He pushed away
the dishes and began to write.

Later in the evening the Captain reappeared. He looked pleased
when he saw a number of sheets already covered with script.