"Sompin's comin' Sam," he said solemnly. "The
old gal's got a bad setback. Ain't none of us goin'
to git a wink o' sleep to-night, or I miss my guess.
Wonder how the wind is." Here he moved to the
door and peered out. "Nor'-east and puffy, just as I
thought. We're goin' to hev some weather, Sam--
ye hear?--some WEATHER!" With this he regained
his chair and joined the double three to the long tail
of his successes. Good weather or bad weather--
peace or war--was all the same to Uncle Isaac. What
he wanted was the earliest news from the front.
Captain Holt took a look at the sky, the aneroid
and the wind--not the arrow; old sea-dogs know
which way the wind blows without depending on
any such contrivance--the way the clouds drift, the
trend of the white-caps, the set of a distant sail, and
on black, almost breathless nights, by the feel of a
wet finger held quickly in the air, the coolest side
determining the wind point.
On this morning the clouds attracted the captain's
attention. They hung low and drifted in long,
straggling lines. Close to the horizon they were ashy
pale; being nearest the edge of the brimming sea,
they had, no doubt, seen something the higher and
rosier-tinted clouds had missed; something of the
ruin that was going on farther down the round of the
sphere.
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