“There’s only three or four shots left in this bottle,” he said, holding up the second of the two quarts he had taken from the case. “You’d better have one more with us before you go. A man burns up lots of whisky without hurting him any on a night like this. Then take the bottle in with you to keep you warm at the wheel.” Knutsen needed no second urging. He was of a race that yields easily to drink, and he wanted to conquer the last, least little whisper of his fear of the night and the storm. He drank once more, pocketed the bottle, then made his way to the pilot house. “You’re not going to try to ride her through?” McNab asked, as he yielded the wheel. “Of course. You’re not afraid of a little flurry like dis.” His voice gave no sign of the four powerful drinks he had consumed. A tough man physically, the truth was he was still a long way from actual drunkenness. But even a small amount of liquor had a distressing effect upon him,—a particularly unfortunate effect for one who habitually has the lives of other human beings in his charge. He always lost the fine edge of his caution. With drink upon him, he was willing to take a chance. McNab stared into his glittering eyes, and for a moment his lips were tightly compressed. “This isn’t a little flurry,” he answered at last coldly. “It’s a young gale, and God knows what it will be by morning. You know and I know we shouldn’t attempt things here that we can do with safety in waters we’re familiar with. Right now we can run into the lea of Ivan Island and find a harbor. There’s a good one just south of the point.” “We’re not going to run into Ivan Island. I want to feel dry land. We’re going to head on toward Tzar Island.” “You run a little more of that bottle down your neck and you’ll be heading us into hell. Listen, Cap’n.” McNab paused, deeply troubled. “You let me take the wheel, and you go in and celebrate with the party. You won’t do any damage then.” “And you get back to your engine and mind your own business.” Little angry points of light shot into Knutsen’s eyes. “And if you see Cornet, tell him to bring up anoder bottle. Dis one’s almost empty.” McNab turned to the door, where for a moment he stood listening to the wild raging of the wind. Then he climbed down into the engine room. There was nothing in his face, as he entered, to reveal the paths of his thought. He was wholly casual, wholly commonplace, seemingly not in the least alarmed. He stepped to Bess’s side, half smiling. “I wonder if you can help me?” he asked. The girl stood up, a straight, athletic figure at his side. “I’ll try, of course.” “It depends—have you any influence with young Cornet?” Bess slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she told him, very gravely. “I have no influence with him at all. What is it you wanted me to do?”