"Your compass needle," he said, "points to the North Pole, and although it has never been to the Pole, and cannot even conceive of it, yet it testifies irresistibly to the existence of such a place.""I trust you navigate your soul more skilfully than you would navigate this vessel," retorted the Captain."In the first place, the needle does not point to the North Pole at all, but to the magnetic pole.Furthermore, it has to be adjusted by magnets to counteract deviation.Mr.Gissing, you may be a sincere student of theology, but you have not allowed for your own temperamental deviation.Why, even the gyro compass has to be adjustedfor latitude error.You landsmen think that a ship is simply a floating hotel.I should like to have the Bishop you spoke of study a little navigation.That would put into him a healthy respect for the marvels of science.On board ship, sir, the binnacle is kept locked and the key is on the watch- chain of the master.It should be so in all intellectual matters.Confide them to those capable of understanding."Gissing saw that the Captain greatly relished his sense of superiority, so he made a remark of intentional simplicity.
"The binnacle?" he said."I thought that was the little shellfish that clings to the bottom of the boat?""Don't you dare call my ship a BOAT!" said the Captain."At sea, a boat means only a lifeboat or some other small vagabond craft.Come out on the bridge and I'll show you a thing or two."The evening had closed in hazy, and the Pomerania swung steadily in a long plunging roll.At the weather wing of the bridge, gazing sharply over the canvas dodger, was Mr.Pointer, the vigilant Chief Officer, peering off rigidly, as though mesmerized, but saying nothing.He gave the Captain a courteous salute, but kept silence.At the large mahogany wheel, gently steadying it to the quarterly roll of the sea, stood Dane, a tall, solemn quartermaster.In spite of a little uneasiness, due to the unfamiliar motion, Gissing was greatly elated by the wheelhouse, which seemed even more thrillingly romantic than any pulpit.Uncomprehendingly, but with admiration, he examined the binnacle, the engine-room telegraphs, the telephones, the rack of signal-flags, the buttons for closing the bulkheads, and the rotating clear-view screen for lookout in thick weather.Aloft he could see the masthead light, gently soaring in slow arcs.
"I'll show you my particular pride," said the Captain, evidently pleased by his visitor's delighted enthusiasm.
Gissing wondered what ingenious device of science this might be.
Captain Scottie stepped to the weather gunwale of the bridge.He pointed to the smoke, which was rolling rapidly from the funnels.
"You see," he said, "there's quite a strong breeze blowing.But look here."He lit a match and held it unshielded above the canvas screen whichwas lashed along the front of the bridge.To Gissing's surprise it burned steadily, without blowing out.
"I've invented a convex wind-shield which splits the air just forward of the bridge.I can stand here and light my pipe in the stiffest gale, without any trouble."On the decks below Gissing heard a bugle blowing gaily, a bright, persuasive sound.
"Six bells," the Captain said."I must dress for dinner.Before I start you potato-peeling, I should like to clear up that little discussion of ours about Free Will.One or two things you said interested me."He paced the bridge for a minute, thinking hard.
"I'll test your sincerity," he said."To-night you can bunk in the chart- room.I'll have some dinner sent up to you.I wish you would write me an essay of, say, two thousand words on the subject of Necessity."For a moment Gissing pondered whether it would not be better to be put in irons and rationed with bread and water.The wind was freshening, and the Pomerania's sharp bow slid heavily into broad hills of sea, crashing them into crumbling rollers of suds which fell outward and hissed along her steep sides.The silent Mr.Pointer escorted him into the chart- room, a bare, businesslike place with a large table, a map-cabinet, and a settee.Here, presently, a steward appeared with excellent viands, and a pen, ink, and notepaper.After a cautious meal, Gissing felt more comfortable.There is something about a wet, windy evening at sea that turns the mind naturally toward metaphysics.He pushed away the dishes and began to write.
Later in the evening the Captain reappeared.He looked pleased when he saw a number of sheets already covered with script.
