Coming aboard, as I passed through the cabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the _Atlantic_, which was open at my very essay.

And there it was again, the division of labour, the special knowledge of the pilot and captain which permitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe while they carried him safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.
A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out on the deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental note of the topic for use in a projected essay which I had thought of calling "The Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist." The red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently had artificial legs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart, and with an expression of keen enjoyment on his face.

I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on the sea.
"It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey before their time," he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.
"I had not thought there was any particular strain," I answered.

"It seems as simple as A, B, C.

They know the direction by compass, the distance, and the speed.