The
heave of the sea would get her and up she would ride, shaking, snapping,
quivering to get her head. Up, up she would go, and as she struggled up,
up, Bowen, watching, would find himself crying out, "By the Lord, she's
parted them." But no--Gr-r--the iron chains would go, Kr-r the iron
hawse-holes would echo, and, suddenly brought to, dead she would stop,
shake herself, and again shake herself to get free; but always the
savage chains would be there to her throat, and down she would fall
trembling; and the white slaver would scatter a cable length from her
jaws as she fell.
Bowen, with an arm hooked into a weather-stay, would stand out and watch
her by the hour; and "Some fine night you'll break loose," he would say
over and over to himself, "and then there'll be the devil to pay around
here," and on returning to the cabin he would tell Nelson about it.
"No, no," Nelson would shake his head, and after he had had time to
think it over, he would smile at Bowen's fears. On nights like these,
when he couldn't have his little game because he couldn't keep the
checkers from hopping off the board, Nelson liked to lie in his bunk,
within range of the big, square, sawdust-filled box which set just
forward of the cheerful stove. With eyes mostly on the oil-clothed
floor, the light-keeper would smoke and yarn unhurriedly. "No, no,"
Nelson would repeat.
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