Ratcliffe, taking his seat on the bottom of the dinghy, watched her as she steered, the old panama on the back of her head and her eyes roving from the binnacle to the luff of the mainsail. The following wind blew warm, and the gentle creak of a block, the slash of the bow-wash, and the occasional click of the rudder chain were the only sounds in all the blue world ringing them.

A mile or more behind them the Natchez showed, a triangle of pearl, Palm Island had vanished, and nothing remained in all the wheel of sea but a trace of smoke to the southward,—the smoke of some freighter hull down on the horizon.

The sturdy little figure at the wheel seemed to have forgotten his existence. He was wondering whether the grudge was still being kept up against him, and what it was all about, and whether this indifference was real or assumed, when a voice made him start:

“Say! Have you swallowed your tongue?”

“No, but I didn’t like to speak to you.”

“What for?” “Well, I’ve heard you mustn’t speak to the man at the wheel.”

“Who stuffed you with that yarn?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it stuck up on steamboats, and besides I thought you were in a temper with me.”

“Which way?”

“Well, you said davits were only good for hoisting fools off a ship.”

“So they are.”

“I thought you meant me.”

“Thought you was a fool, did you?”

“Then last night you got in a wax—Jude.”

“Yep.”

“Nothing—only—we don’t want to quarrel—and we haven’t been the same since last night, somehow.”

“Which way?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You wouldn’t let me help to clear the things this morning.”

“Wouldn’t I? Well, you can help to steer the ship now. Kin you steer?”

“Only a boat.”

“Well, it’s easy learnt, and you’re not much use aboard unless you can take your hand at the wheel.”

He said nothing for a minute, admiring the way she had steered clear of the subject he had started on.

“I don’t mind,” said he at last. “I’ll learn some time—you can teach me.”

Jude let her eyes rest on him. Then suddenly, and with the vehemence and force of a Methodist preacher driving home a point from the pulpit, she spoke: “Air you stuck to the bottom of that dinghy with cobbler’s wax?”

He laughed and stood up.

“That’s right,” said Jude. “Now come’n take the wheel. Some time’s no time! You’ve got to learn to handle her now if you want to. Go behind me and look over my shoulder—that’s right.”

He stood behind her, wondering what the next command would be. It came almost at once.

“Stick your eye on the compass card.”

“Right.”

“S’long as the pointer’s like that she’s on her course. Now I’ll let her off a spoke or two—keep your eye on the card.”

The pointer altered its indication, and the mainsail seemed suddenly attacked by the ague.

“Now she’s on her course again,” said Jude, altering the wheel. “Take hold of her. I’ll stand by to give you a hand if you want it.”

He took the spokes she had been holding as she relinquished them, and the first sensation that came to him was the feeling that he had taken hold of something alive, something alive and sensitive as a hare. The wheel seemed to have a motive power and will of its own, and the infernal compass card to take affront at the least movement of the helm.

Jude rested her hand on his left hand to show him how and give him confidence, and at the touch of her firm little hand the stage-fright that comes to every steersman when he first takes the wheel left him. In five minutes he had got the hang of the thing, or thought so.

“Can you run her alone?” asked Jude.

“Rather! It’s as simple as simple.”

“Right,” said Jude.

She drew off and took her seat on the dinghy.

“Easy, ain’t it?”

“Easy as pie.”

The wind freshened a bit, and the Sarah, heeling slightly, took matters in her own hand for a moment and fell off her course. He put the wheel over too much, and like a frightened horse she went plunging away in the opposite direction, the wind spilling from her sails and the main boom threatening to swing to port.

In a moment Jude was beside him, her hands on the spokes, and the Sarah on her course again.

A voice came from below, where Satan, like a sensitive plant, had evidently felt the alteration in their course.

“What the —— are you doin’ up there?”

“Learning Rat to steer,” cried Jude.

Ratcliffe, himself again, retaking the wheel, turned to her.

“For God’s sake,” said he, “don’t call me that!”

“Which?”

“Rat.”

“For the land’s sake what’s the matter with it?”

“It’s a beastly name. If you want something short, call me what everyone else calls me.”

“What’s that?” “Bobby.”

“You’re lettin’ her off again,” said Jude. “Starboard—that’s it. Here’s Satan: he’ll go on learnin’ you. I’m goin’ below for a wash.”