Mr. Trunnell, Mate of the Ship

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unmistakably a woman's. "When a person is good at baking cake, or 'barking cark,' as you choose to call it, the sea is a good place for them. They can look out for those who haven't sense enough to perform the function."

      I had a strong notion to ask him outright if he was fitted to perform the function, but his superior air and the feeling that I might make a mistake after all and incur the displeasure of the beak-nosed skipper deterred me. But I was almost certain that our third mate was a woman.

      We remained standing together in the night for a few moments while neither spoke. My advances had not received the favorable acknowledgment I had expected, and there was a distinctly disagreeable feeling creeping upon me while in this neutral presence. I was young and hot-headed, so I spoke accordingly before leaving the field, or rather deck, in retreat.

      "I wish you had the distinction of belonging to the port watch."

      "Why?"

      "I think I might strengthen your powers of discernment regarding the relative positions of second and third mates."

      "We'll see who has the better insight in regard to the matter without my being bored to that extent," said the third officer in his softest tones, and again I fancied I heard the voice of a man swearing fiercely in a low voice as if to himself. Then I turned and went aft.

      "It's something queer," said Trunnell, shaking his great shaggy head and glancing toward the break of the poop. A step sounded on the companion ladder, and the skipper came on deck.

      "Pretty dark, hey?" he said, and his quick eyes took in both Trunnell and myself comprehensively.

      "Looks like we might have a spell o' weather if the wind keeps fallin'," observed Trunnell.

      "Well, I don't suppose a dark night is any worse than a bright one, and I call to mind many a time I'd give something to see it a bit blacker. Do you know where you're at?"

      "She's headin' about the same, but if ye don't mind, I'll be gettin' her down gradual like to her torps'ls if the glass keeps a-fallin'. Short commons, says I, on the edge o' the monsoon."

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