MacKenzie lay on one of the red, upholstered lockers which extended the length of the cabin under the tiers of bunks on either side; he had changed his neat shore raiment for rough sea clothes. The other two, in similar attire, were seated at the wide table in the middle of the room. Lea, black-browed, swarthy as some old-time pirate, was hammering the table with his fist to emphasize his assertions. Old Wills wagged his white beard against the flaming background of a scarlet flannel undershirt, announcing every conclusion with slow placidity. “There’s that Standard tanker,” he was saying; “from Honolulu, and----” “The _Empress_,” Lea interrupted loudly. “And they’re all that’s coming in to-morrow. Sorry for you, Dan.” “I’ll get the _Empress_.” MacKenzie made the announcement as positively as though it were an order. Wills turned with the deliberation which his extensive girth demanded until he faced MacKenzie, and his snowy whiskers swept to and fro against the sanguinary background, as he shook his head. “Don’t you be so blame sure, now,” he said slowly. As one who sums up judgment, MacKenzie spoke, and with a certainty, as though he were at this moment gazing beyond the curtain of the fog over the earth’s curve: “That overdue Frenchman is heading for the Farallons now. ’Twas him the _Hazel Dollar_ sighted yesterday and reported with his topmasts gone. But unless there’s more air stirrin’ out there than there is here, he won’t be in till after daybreak.” “That bark the _Dollar_ sighted was bound for Puget Sound.” Lea thumped the table. “The Frenchman’s lost.” Wills joined him, and their voices mingled for some moments; the names of ships and far ports flew thick and fast; the cabin resounded with strange words by which local tempests are called down the west coast. MacKenzie remained silent until they had concluded. Then---- “I’m right,” he reiterated. Lea swore at him with the deep fervency which time-tried shipmates can use in their profanity when they apply it to one another. Old Wills turned laboriously to face him once more. “Dan”--his voice was heavy with solemnity--“you’re always this way. You can’t even pass the time o’ day with a man without you got to be so dead sure about the thing. It ain’t right, I tell you.” “Now listen, Dan,” Lea cut in. “You got to change your mind once in a while.” MacKenzie shook his head. “I know when I’m right,” he said aggressively. “Supposing you was wrong?” Wills demanded. “I ain’t wrong,” MacKenzie announced, in the same sure tone. “I know when I’m right, I tell you. I’d be no pilot if I didn’t know that.” Lea swore again, and the fervency of despair was in his voice now. “Come, Jim,” he told Wills, and picked up the cards which were lying in front of him on the table, “I’ll play you a game of pinochle.”