True Heading

The spring-loaded latch on the brass pocket compass required direct pressure. I braced my boots against the grooved rim of the wooden valet tray and drove the heel of my glove against the release button. The lid snapped back with a crisp metallic ping. Inside, the damped magnetic needle drifted through two slow arcs before locking steadily along the north axis. A faint pale-green phosphor line glowed along its spine in the dim lamplight. Alignment confirmed. Heading holds true.