"
On the 28th of January, when in lat. 27 degrees 20" N.,
long. 177 degrees W., the wind chopped suddenly into
the west, not very strong, but puffy and with flaws of
rain. The captain, eager for easting, made a fair wind
of it and guyed the booms out wing and wing. It was
Tommy's trick at the wheel, and as it was within half
an hour of the relief (7.30 in the morning), the
captain judged it not worth while to change him.
The puffs were heavy, but short; there was nothing to
be called a squall, no danger to the ship, and scarce
more than usual to the doubtful spars. All hands were
on deck in their oilskins, expecting breakfast; the
galley smoked, the ship smelt of coffee, all were in
good humour to be speeding east-ward a full nine; when
the rotten foresail tore suddenly between two cloths,
and then split to either hand. It was for all the
world as though some archangel with a huge sword had
slashed it with the figure of a cross; all hands ran to
secure the slatting canvas; and in the sudden uproar
and alert, Tommy Hadden lost his head.
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