The Rules of the Road

Her voice started with a complaining squawk, was full toned for a few
moments, then trailed off into more querulousness; the timbre of that
tone seemed to fit with Captain Wass's mood.

"It's tough times when a cargo-carrier has to figger so fine that she
can lose profit on account of what the men eat," he went on. "If you're
two days late, minding rules in a fog, owners ask what the tophet's
the matter with you! This kind of business don't need steamboat men any
longer; it calls for boarding-house keepers who can cut sirloin steak
off'n a critter clear to the horn, and who are handy in turning sharp
corners on left-overs. I'll buy a book of cooking receets and try to
turn in dividends."

The captain was broad-bowed, like the Nequasset, he sagged on short
legs as if he carried a cargo fully as heavy as steel rails, his white
whiskers streamed away from his cutwater nose like the froth kicked up
by the old freighter's forefoot. He chewed slowly, conscientiously and
continuously on tobacco which bulged in his cheek; his jaws, moving as
steadily as a pendulum swings, seemed to set the time for the isochronal
whistle-blast. Sixty ruminating jaw-wags, then he spat into the fog,
then the blast--correct to the clock's tide!

The windows of the pilot-house were dropped into their casings, so
that all sounds might be admitted; the wet breeze beaded the skipper's
whiskers and dampened the mate's crisp hair. While the mate leaned
from a window, ear cocked for signals, the captain gave him more of the
critical inspection in which he had been indulging when occasion served.