Horace Newbegin was a veritable sea dog. He had sailed
every navigable sea in all this watery world, and sailed in almost
every conceivable sort of craft. And he had sailed many voyages
under Tunis Latham's father, who had owned and commanded the
four-master _Ada May_, which, ill-freighted and ill-fated at last,
had struck and sunk on the outer Hebrides, carrying to the bottom
most of the hands as well as the commander of the partially insured
ship.
This misfortune had kept Tunis Latham out of a command of his own
until he was thirty; for Cape Cod boys that come of masters'
families and are born navigators usually tread their own decks years
before the age at which Tunis was pacing that of the _Seamew_ on
this summer day.
"How does she handle now, Horry?" asked the skipper, wheeling
suddenly to face the old steersman.
"Thar's still that tug to sta'bo'd, Captain Tunis," growled the old
man.
"But you keep her full on her course."
"Spite o' that? In course. But I can feel her tuggin' like a big
bluefish trying to bolt with hook and sinker. Never did feel that
same tug to sta'bo'd but once before on any craft. I told you that."
Tunis Latham nodded. The old man's keen eyes tried to read the
skipper's face.
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