Joshua Higgins by name， a seaman by profession and pull，but a pot-wolloper by capacity， he was a loose-jointed，sniffling creature， heartless and selfish and cowardly，without a soul， in fear of his life of Dan Cullen， and abully over the sailors， who knew that behind the mate wasCaptain Cullen， the law-giver and compeller， the driverand the destroyer， the incarnation of a dozen bucko mates.
In that wild weather at the southern end of the earth，Joshua Higgins ceased washing. His grimy face usuallyrobbed George Dorety of what little appetite he managedto accumulate. Ordinarily this lavatorial dereliction wouldhave caught Captain Cullen’s eye and vocabulary， but inthe present his mind was filled with making westing， tothe exclusion of all other things not contributory thereto.
Whether the mate’s face was clean or dirty had no bearingupon westing. Later on， when 5O degrees south in thePacific had been reached， Joshua Higgins would wash hisface very abruptly. In the meantime， at the cabin table，where gray twilight alternated with lamplight while thelamps were being filled， George Dorety sat between thetwo men， one a tiger and the other a hyena， and wonderedwhy God had made them. The second mate， MatthewTurner， was a true sailor and a man， but George Doretydid not have the solace of his company， for he ate byhimself， solitary， when they had finished.
On Saturday morning， July 24， George Dorety awoketo a feeling of life and headlong movement. On deckhe found the Mary Rogers running off before a howlingsouth-easter. Nothing was set but the lower topsails andthe foresail. It was all she could stand， yet she was makingfourteen knots， as Mr. Turner shouted in Dorety’s earwhen he came on deck. And it was all westing. She wasgoing around the Horn at last ... if the wind held. Mr.
Turner looked happy. The end of the struggle was insight. But Captain Cullen did not look happy. He scowledat Dorety in passing. Captain Cullen did not want Godto know that he was pleased with that wind. He had aconception of a malicious God， and believed in his secretsoul that if God knew it was a desirable wind， God wouldpromptly efface it and send a snorter from the west. So hewalked softly before God， smothering his joy down underscowls and muttered curses， and， so， fooling God， for Godwas the only thing in the universe of which Dan Cullenwas afraid.
All Saturday and Saturday night the Mary Rogers racedher westing. Persistently she logged her fourteen knots， sothat by Sunday morning she had covered three hundredand fifty miles. If the wind held， she would make around.
If it failed， and the snorter came from anywhere betweensouth-west and north， back the Mary Rogers would behurled and be no better off than she had been seven weeksbefore. And on Sunday morning the wind was failing. Thebig sea was going down and running smooth. Both watcheswere on deck setting sail after sail as fast as the ship couldstand it. And now Captain Cullen went around brazenlybefore God， smoking a big cigar， smiling jubilantly， as ifthe failing wind delighted him， while down underneathhe was raging against God for taking the life out of theblessed wind. Make westing！ So he would， if God wouldonly leave him alone. Secretly， he pledged himself anewto the Powers of Darkness， if they would let him makewesting. He pledged himself so easily because he did notbelieve in the Powers of Darkness. He really believed onlyin God， though he did not know it. And in his invertedtheology God was really the Prince of Darkness. CaptainCullen was a devil-worshipper， but he called the devil byanother name， that was all.
At midday， after calling eight bells， Captain Cullenordered the royals on. The men went aloft faster than theyhad gone in weeks. Not alone were they nimble becauseof the westing， but a benignant sun was shining down andlimbering their stiff bodies. George Dorety stood aft， nearCaptain Cullen， less bundled in clothes than usual， soakingin the grateful warmth as he watched the scene. Swiftlyand abruptly the incident occurred. There was a cry fromthe foreroyal-yard of “Man overboard！” Somebody threw alife-buoy over the side， and at the same instant the secondmate’s voice came aft， ringing and peremptory—“Hard down your helm！”
The man at the wheel never moved a spoke. He knewbetter， for Captain Dan Cullen was standing alongside ofhim. He wanted to move a spoke， to move all the spokes，to grind the wheel down， hard down， for his comradedrowning in the sea. He glanced at Captain Dan Cullen，and Captain Dan Cullen gave no sign.
“Down！ Hard down！” the second mate roared， as hesprang aft.
But he ceased springing and commanding， and stoodstill， when he saw Dan Cullen by the wheel. And bigDan Cullen puffed at his cigar and said nothing. Astern，and going astern fast， could be seen the sailor. He hadcaught the life-buoy and was clinging to it. Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved. The men aloft clung to the royal yardsand watched with terror-stricken faces. And the MaryRogers raced on， making her westing. A long， silent minutepassed.
“Who was it？” Captain Cullen demanded.
“Mops， sir，” eagerly answered the sailor at the wheel.
Mops topped a wave astern and disappeared temporarilyin the trough. It was a large wave， but it was no graybeard.