I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his arm. He
stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange
"I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of her. But she's knocking
about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind a bit. She seems to see the
storm coming, but can't decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here.
Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the
wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more of her before this time