' The red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently had artificial legs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart and with an expression of keen enjoyment on his face. I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on the sea.
? ? ? ? 'It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads gray before their time,' he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.
? ? ? ? 'I had not thought there was any particular strain,' I answered. 'It seems as simple as a-b-c. They know the direction by compass, the distance, and the speed. I should not call it anything more than mathematical certainty.'
? ? ? ? 'Strain!' he snorted. 'Simple as a-b-c! Mathematical certainty!' He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he stared at me. 'How about this here tide that's rushin' out through the Golden Gate?' he demanded, or bellowed, rather. 'How fast is she ebbin'? What's the drift, eh? Listen to that, will you! A bell-buoy, and we're atop of it! See 'em alterin' the course!'
? ? ? ? From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could see the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity.
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