The boat
cannot live an hour here even if she strike nothing. It is not good to
look at death with a clear eye."
He refreshed himself again from the tin box, squatted down in the bows
of the reeling, pegged, and stitched craft, staring through the mist at
the nothing that was there. A warm drowsiness crept over Findlayson,
the Chief Engineer, whose duty was with his bridge. The heavy raindrops
struck him with a thousand tingling little thrills, and the weight of
all time since time was made hung heavy on his eyelids. He thought and
perceived that he was perfectly secure, for the water was so solid that
a man could surely step out upon it, and, standing still with his legs
apart to keep his balance--this was the most important point--would be
borne with great and easy speed to the shore. But yet a better plan came
to him. It needed only an exertion of will for the soul to hurl the
body ashore as wind drives paper, to waft it kite-fashion to the bank.
Thereafter--the boat spun dizzily--suppose the high wind got under the
freed body? Would it tower up like a kite and pitch headlong on the
far-away sands, or would it duck about, beyond control, through all
eternity? Findlayson gripped the gunnel to anchor himself, for it seemed
that he was on the edge of taking the flight before he had settled all
his plans.
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