Dawn was breaking. Stars were fading. Mastheads of anchored ships swayed easily against the opening sky. A ship’s mate banged upon the forecastle door, rousing his crew. A drowsy sailor lurched off to the galley, fetching the morning coffee. “How long was you ashore?” asked one sailor of another. “Wot day is it?” came the reply. The questioner chuckled. Some surly, some indifferent, they sipped their coffee. The mate looked in. “Rouse out here, now! Get up and man that windlass!” They straggled to the deck. But Jukes lay sleeping still, his face to the bulkhead. The mate stepped in and shook him. He wakened slowly. “Tumble out, here, you!” Jukes climbed from the bunk and looked about him. “Come on, now! You’re at sea, my man. Get out of here!” With a long staggering stride, Jukes passed out to the new ship’s deck. The wind blew in his hair. The tide sang by. Jukes turned, wild-eyed, and faced the mate. Men on the forecastle head looked down and laughed to hear him curse. He gazed up at them, vacant eyed. He looked toward the shore, saw his old ship, and shuddered. “Come on, my man!” the mate said. “You’re at sea.” Alf Jukes ascended to the forecastle head. “Sing, someone!” said the mate, “sing and let’s get her away.” A sailor leaning on a windlass bar began to sing a forecastle song, a chantey, a ballad with a wailing chorus. The tugboat’s smoke whirled by. The chorus rose and fell. The cable clanked. “W’y don’t ye sing, shipmate?” a sailor asked of Jukes. Alf Jukes let go his windlass bar. Fists clenched and arms upraised, his curses ringing loud above his comrades’ song, he looked upon the shore. “Come on, my man,” the mate said. “You’re at sea.” * * * * * Weeks were gone by. It was black midnight. No star shone. Sails hung invisible. Long swells rolled sluggishly beneath the keel. The ship’s bow rose, dipped to deep hollows, and arose again. Half naked in the hot night, Alf Jukes lay slumbering. The watch below slept soundly all about him. The watch on deck sat talking on the hatch without. Sails flapped to the long roll of the ship. Chains clinked upon the lower masts. Blocks chattered squeakily. Now and again a heavy rope, a sheet or lazy tack, thud-thudded against the ship’s side. The wheel cluck-clucked. The sailors’ voices rose and fell, a mumble from the hatch. Poring above a chart, the skipper sat in his chart room. Presently he rose, looked out to the dark night, listened awhile, and went below. An hour passed. High and sudden, the mate’s voice rang above the noises of the night, and, answering quick commands, gloom-hidden sailors leaped up and rushed to the braces. The skipper ran, pajama-clad and shouting, to the deck. The watch on deck were shouting at the ropes. A deep, long, grumbling roar was all about--the growl of rollers bursting on a reef.