Dennison was an able seaman. He had been brought up on the sea--seven
years on the first Wanderer and five on the second. He had, in company
with his father, ridden the seven seas. But he had no trade; he hadn't the
money instinct; he would have to stumble upon fortune; he knew no way of
making it. And this knowledge stirred his rancor anew--the father hadn't
played fair with the son.
He gripped the deck-house rail to steady himself, for the wind and rain
caught him head-on.
Then he worked his way slowly along to the bridge. Twice a comber broke on
the quarter and dropped a ton of water, which sloshed about the deck,
drenching his feet. He climbed the ladder, rather amused at the recurrence
of an old thought--that climbing ship ladders in dirty weather was a good
deal like climbing in nightmares: one weighed thousands of pounds and had
feet of lead.
Presently he peered into the chart room, which was dark except for the
small hooded bulbs over the navigating instruments. He could see the chin
and jaws of the wheelman and the beard of old Captain Newton. From time to
time a wheel spoke came into the light.
On the chart table lay a pocket lamp, facing sternward, the light pouring
upon what looked to be a map; and over it were bent three faces, one of
which was Cunningham's. A forefinger was tracing this map.
Dennison opened the door and stepped inside.