We were seated on a part of the deck that was not very far distant from the wheel. The corner of the awning shaded us, but all about the wheel was in the sun, and the glare of the white decks, and of the white gratings, and of the white costume in which the sailor who held the wheel was clad, and the white brilliance of the wheel itself, whose circle was banded with brass and whose centrepiece was brass, paled the blue of the sky over the stern, as though a silver haze of heat rose into the atmosphere; and the dark blue sea itself was dimmed into a faintness of azure by contrast with the glaring white light that lay upon the after portion of the ship, which was unshadowed by the awning.
But within the awning the deck was as cool as a tunnel. The violet gloom was for ever freshened by the mild blowing of the breeze through the rigging and over the rail; and the soft wind was made the cooler to the senses by the fountainlike murmur of waters broken by the quiet progress of the ship, and by that most refreshing of sounds on a hot day, the seething of foam.
I went to Alice’s cabin, where I found Mrs. Lee writing in what appeared to be a diary, took from a shelf the book Alice had asked me to fetch, and returned to her side; and I had opened the volume and had found the place where I had left off when I last read to her, and was beginning to read aloud when I found my attention disturbed by the sound of voices behind our chairs. I turned my head, and observed that Mr. Wedmold and Mr. Clack had seated themselves, regardless of the heat of the sun, upon a grating near the wheel. They were arguing.
‘It is impossible for me to read,’ I exclaimed, ‘while those men are talking so loud.’
‘What are they arguing about?’ said Alice Lee; ‘let us listen.’
‘Yes, I am with you there,’ said Mr. Wedmold. ‘Defoe’s English is admirable. But “Robinson Crusoe” is full of blunders.’
‘Blunders,’ cried Mr. Clack, whose collars held his neck so rigid that he could not turn his head without moving his body from the waist. ‘I have read “Robinson Crusoe” often enough, and cannot recollect a single blunder for the life of me.’
‘Will you bet there are no absurdities in “Robinson Crusoe”?’
‘I will stand a drink,’ said Mr. Clack, ‘if you can point out--so as to convince me--a single absurdity in “Robinson Crusoe”.’