always observed that the reckless person, who undertakes some risky adventure in thoughtless ignorance, is the first to lose his head in the presence of the danger, which he was unable to realise before he blindly rushed into it?
Some people place implicit faith in the weather wisdom of old sailors. This is all very well in its way, and weather can, of course, be foretold by observing the aspect of the sky, the movements of birds, and so forth. But I have often found the old sailor altogether at fault in his prognostications: the barometer is the only reliable guide. In The Falcon on the Baltic I illustrated these truths by narrating my own experiences on two occasions. On the first occasion I was lying weather-bound in Harwich waiting for a slant to take me to Holland. It was wild-looking weather, the boatmen of the place shook their heads knowingly, and were confident that a storm was on its way to us, and the coxswain of the lifeboat told me that a friend of his, the skipper of a barge, had telegraphed from South Shields—'Barge detained by heavy gales.' But I could not believe that my barometer, which had been steady for some days, was capable of deceiving me; and moreover the wind was fair, so I was inclined to be off. However, so as to satisfy my mind, I decided to obtain a later official forecast than that afforded by the morning papers. I remembered that the Meteorological Office would, if applied to, telegraph a weather-forecast for the
