He leaned forward a little over Mrs. Anthony, but they were
not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a springy hurried gait on the
other side of the poop from end to end, gazed straight before him. Young
Powell might have thought that his captain was not aware of his presence
either. However, he knew better, and for that reason spent a most
uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain stopped
in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark to
him about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled,
could find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless
tramp with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt
over that poop like an evil spell. The captain walked up and down
looking straight before him, the helmsman steered, looking upwards at the
sails, the old gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter--and Mr.
Powell confessed to me that he didn't know where to look, feeling as
though he had blundered in where he had no business--which was absurd. At
last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in spirit,
inside the binnacle.
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