“I've invented a convex wind-shield which splits the air just forward of the bridge. I can stand here and light my pipe in the stiffest gale, without any trouble.” On the decks below Gissing heard a bugle blowing gaily, a bright, persuasive sound. “Six bells,” the Captain said. “I must dress for dinner. Before I start you potato-peeling, I should like to clear up that little discussion of ours about Free Will. One or two things you said interested me.” He paced the bridge for a minute, thinking hard. “I'll test your sincerity,” he said. “To-night you can bunk in the chart-room. I'll have some dinner sent up to you. I wish you would write me an essay of, say, two thousand words on the subject of Necessity.” For a moment Gissing pondered whether it would not be better to be put in irons and rationed with bread and water. The wind was freshening, and the Pomerania's sharp bow slid heavily into broad hills of sea, crashing them into crumbling rollers of suds which fell outward and hissed along her steep sides. The silent Mr. Pointer escorted him into the chart-room, a bare, businesslike place with a large table, a map-cabinet, and a settee. Here, presently, a steward appeared with excellent viands, and a pen, ink, and notepaper. After a cautious meal, Gissing felt more comfortable. There is something about a wet, windy evening at sea that turns the mind naturally toward metaphysics. He pushed away the dishes and began to write. Later in the evening the Captain reappeared. He looked pleased when he saw a number of sheets already covered with script. “Rum lot of passengers this trip,” he said. “I don't seem to see any who look interesting. All Big Business and that sort of thing. I must say it's nice to have someone who can talk about books, and so on, once in a while.” Gissing realized that sometimes a shipmaster's life must be a lonely one. The weight of responsibility is always upon him; etiquette prevents his becoming familiar with his officers; small wonder if he pines occasionally for a little congenial talk to relieve his mind. “Big Business, did you say?” Gissing remarked. “Ah, I could write you quite an essay about that. I used to be General Manager of Beagle and Company.” “Come into my cabin and have a liqueur,” said the skipper. “Let the essay go until to-morrow.” The Captain turned on the electric stove in his cabin, for the night was cold. It was a snug sanctum: at the portholes were little chintz curtains; over the bunk was a convenient reading lamp. On the wall a brass pendulum swung slowly, registering the roll of the ship. The ruddy shine of the stove lit up the orderly desk and the photographs of the Captain's family. “Yours?” said Gissing, looking at a group of three puppies with droll Scottish faces. “Aye,” said the Captain.