"How are you making out, Newton?" he asked, calmly.

"Denny? Why, God bless me, boy, I'm glad to see you! How's your dad?"

"Reading."

"That would be like him. I don't suppose if hell opened under his feet
he'd do anything except look interested. And it 'pears to me's though hell
had opened up right now!"

A chuckle came from the chart table.

"What's your idea of hell, Newton?" asked Cunningham.

"Anything you might have a hand in," was the return bolt.

"Why, you used to like me!"

"Yes, yes! But I didn't know you then. The barometer's dropping. If it was
August I'd say we were nosing into a typhoon. I always hated this yellow
muck they call a sea over here. Did you pick up that light?"

"Yes, sir," answered the wheelman. "I take it she's making
south--Hong-Kong way. There's plenty of sea room. She'll be well down
before we cross her wake."

Silence except for the rumble of the weather canvas standing up against
the furious blasts of the wind. Dennison stepped over to the chart table.

"Cunningham, I would like to have a word with you."

"Go ahead. You can have as many as you like."

"At dinner you spoke of your word."

"So I did. What about it?"