"Oh, yes," he replied glibly, "Charles IX. was the son of Henry of Navarre." The engineer shook his head slightly.
"You are away off, Tom," declared Jo. "His mother was Catherine de Médici and Henri III. was his brother. Maybe he was the nephew or cousin of Henry of Navarre. I wish I had a history here and I would look it up."
"Partly right and partly wrong, Jo," said Berwick. "Catherine de Médici was the mother of Charles IX., whose sister, Margaret of Navarre, married Henry of Navarre. But this is the point I want to make. Charles IX. finally got so tired of the pomps and ceremonies of the court after a while that he had a forge fixed up in his palace and there he used to make and hammer out horseshoes. That," he concluded with a smile, "is why I took up my work. I was tired of useless idleness. There is a constant live interest in this business of running an engine that I like. Now I must get at it, and good-night to you."
"Good-night, Mr. Berwick," replied the boys, and made their way out of the engine-room on to the storm-swept deck, all except Juarez, who stayed to work with the engineer.
The boys separated to their respective duties. Jeems took the boy's task of stoking, Jim was at the wheel, sending Pete below to the forecastle to take a good sleep. Tom and Jo were detailed to go to their respective cabins and turn in for the night, as the old captain had rather perversely taken it into his head to stand watch on the bridge, though Jim had tried to dissuade him.
"It won't do your rheumatism any good, Captain," warned Jim. "It's mighty wet and cold on the bridge and the wind is rushing fierce."
"Trying to make me out an old man," growled the captain, much aggrieved. "I guess I can stand as much as any of you boys. I've weathered many a storm in my day."
"You are tough as a knot yet, Captain," said Jim soothingly.
So it happened that the captain in his heavy storm coat stood on the bridge, while the rain swished and swirled over the tossing seas, and swept the decks, so that it was much pleasanter in the cabin than abroad, but Jim enjoyed nothing more in sailoring than to be at the wheel a night like this, guiding his craft plunging through the heavy waves in the darkness. There was a fascination about it, the obedience of the ship to the helm, the following of the mysterious guidance of the needle, the standing fixed against the rush of wind and rain, the familiar feeling of the spokes of the wheel, like grasping the bridle reins when riding a spirited horse, all this went to make up Jim's liking for this work.