“That's bettah, sah! That's bettah, Captain, sah! Go astern! This he-ah's the bar, sah--damn bad place, the bar, sah! Go astern, sah. Captain, sah, d'you he-ah me--go astern! Try again, 'nother place further up, sah. Captain, sah! Over that way; that way thar--that way, sah!” He pointed through the sky-flung spray with a trembling finger and his voice was rich with doleful emphasis, but the commander held his course and carried on. There seemed neither sympathy nor understanding on that unsteadiest of ships. Curley Crothers, solemn-faced as Nemesis and looking half as compassionate, moved his wheel a trifle. Joe Byng in the chains kept up his even sing-song, expressionless, as if he were an automatic clock that did not care, but must record the truth each time his dripping pendulum touched bottom. “And a half--three!” White foam was boiling in among the dirty welter, and the Puncher's bow pitched suddenly as the first big bar wave lifted her; a second later her propellers chug-chug-chugged in surface spume as she kicked upward like a porpoise diving. “Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy!” groaned the pilot. “This he-ah watah's full of sharks, an' that's the bar! You're on the bar now, Captain, sah!” “By the mark--three!” Byng chanted steadily. “Starboard a little more,” said the commander leaning forward and shoving the pilot away to leeward at the same time. Then he shouted to the fo'castle head, where a bosun's mate and his crew had climbed and were awaiting orders in evident and most unreasonable unconcern. “Get both anchors ready!” “Aye, aye, sir!” came the answer, and efficiency controlled by experts proceeded at kaleidoscopic angles to defy the elements. The big steel hooks were ready in an instant. “Stop her!” ordered the commander. The gongs clanged out an alarm and the throbbing ceased. “Hard astern, both engines!” Again there was a clangor under hatches, and the suffering bearings shrieked. The Puncher dropped her stern two feet or so, and the foam boiled brown round her propellers. The shock of the reversal pitched the pilot up against the forward rail, where he clung like a drowning man. “For the love o' God, sah! Captain; sah, we've struck! Ah told you so; Ah said--” “And a half-three!” chanted Joe Byng. “Stop her! Starboard engine ahead! Port engine ahead! Ease your helm! Meet her! Half speed ahead!” The Puncher pitched and rolled, kicking at the following monsoon that thundered at her counter and tossing up the foam that seethed about her bow. She trembled from end to end, as if the pounding of the water hurt her. “Helm amidships!” ordered the commander suddenly. “'Midships, sir!” “Full speed ahead, both engines!”