But the main point of the whole affair, to my notion, has always been this. The ship was the last friend of those six poor wretches who made back for the island with their poor chests of plunder. She was their guardian, as it were, would have defended and befriended them to the last; and also we, the Three Black Crows and myself, had no right under heaven, nor before the law of men, to come prying and peeping into this business--into this affair of the dead and buried past. There was sacrilege in it. We were no better than body-snatchers. * * * * * When I heard the others complaining of the loneliness of our surroundings, I said nothing at first. I was no sailor man, and I was on board only by tolerance. But I looked again at the maddening sameness of the horizon--the same vacant, void horizon that we had seen now for sixteen days on end, and felt in my wits and in my nerves that same formless rebellion and protest such as comes when the same note is reiterated over and over again. It may seem a little thing that the mere fact of meeting with no other ship should have ground down the edge of the spirit. But let the incredulous--bound upon such a hazard as ours--sail straight into nothingness for sixteen days on end, seeing nothing but the sun, hearing nothing but the thresh of his own screw, and then put the question. And yet, of all things, we desired no company. Stealth was our one great aim. But I think there were moments--toward the last--when the Three Crows would have welcomed even a cruiser. Besides, there was more cause for depression, after all, than mere isolation. On the seventh day Hardenberg and I were forward by the cat-head, adjusting the grain with some half-formed intent of spearing the porpoises that of late had begun to appear under our bows, and Hardenberg had been computing the number of days we were yet to run. "We are some five hundred odd miles off that island by now," he said, "and she's doing her thirteen knots handsome. All's well so far--but do you know, I'd just as soon raise that point o' land as soon as convenient." "How so?" said I, bending on the line. "Expect some weather?" "Mr. Dixon," said he, giving me a curious glance, "the sea is a queer proposition, put it any ways. I've been a seafarin' man since I was big as a minute, and I know the sea, and what's more, the Feel o' the sea. Now, look out yonder. Nothin', hey? Nothin' but the same ol' skyline we've watched all the way out. The glass is as steady as a steeple, and this ol' hooker, I reckon, is as sound as the day she went off the ways. But just the same if I were to home now, a-foolin' about Gloucester way in my little dough-dish--d'ye know what? I'd put into port. I sure would. Because why? Because I got the Feel o' the Sea, Mr. Dixon. I got the Feel o' the Sea."