them.

"Boats are all provisioned and equipped," shouted Gissing. "I've
broadcasted your position by radio. The barometer's at Fixed
Fair. Pull off now, and 'ware the screw."

He moved the telegraph handle to DEAD SLOW, and the Pomerania
began to slip forward gently. The boats dropped aft amid a loud
miscellaneous outcry. Mr. Pointer was already examining the
horizon. Captain Scottie, awakened to the situation, was uttering
the language of theology but not the purport.

"Don't stand up in the boats," megaphoned Gissing. "You're quite
all right, there's a ship on the way already. I wirelessed last
night."

He slid the telegraph to slow, half, and then full. Once more the
ship creamed through the lifting purple swells. The little flock
of boats was soon out of sight.

Alone at the wheel, he realized that a great weight was off his
mind. The responsibility of his position had burdened him more
than he knew. Now a strange eagerness and joy possessed him. His
bubbling wake cut straight and milky across the glittering
afternoon. In a ruddy sunset glow, the sea darkened through all
tints of violet, amethyst, indigo. The horizon line sharpened so
clearly that he could distinguish the tossing profile of waves
wetting the sky. "A red sky at night is the sailor's delight," he
said to himself. He switched on the port and starboard lights and
the masthead lanterns, then lashed the wheel while he went below