The Stolen Cruiser

It was half-past eight on a May morning. The sun was obscured in a dense haze that the light south-westerly breeze failed to disperse.
Spithead lay enshrouded in the sea-fog, while from the deck of H.M. torpedo-boat destroyer Frome neither the low-lying land upon which Portsmouth is built nor the undulating downs of the Isle of Wight were visible.
Boyne Buoy on the starboard bow, sir, reported the look-out.
Thanks be! ejaculated Lieutenant-Commander Douglas Drake to his companion, Sub-Lieutenant Paul Fielding. I shan't be sorry to turn in.
The Frome had been out for night-firing off the Medmery Bank, but ill-luck in the guise of a fog accompanied her. For hours she cruised up and down, waiting for the bank of impenetrable haze to lift, while her consort, the Calder , was standing by ready to take the canvas target in tow.
It was a nerve-racking job, forging slowly ahead in the fog. In a heavy sea, provided the weather be sufficiently clear to enable the officer of the watch to pick up the various lights, the discomfort, even when battened down, is nothing compared with the blindworm tactics of keeping steerage way in a shut-in sky of dark grey clammy vapour.
By George! It is clearing, exclaimed Fielding. Surely that is Southsea Castle ahead.
You're right. I only hope the admiral won't order us out to-morrow night.
By the mark ten! shouted the leadsman in the monotonous drawl that seamen affect when engaged in sounding.
Fairly in the channel, thank goodness. How's that for navigation, Mr. Cardyke? asked the lieutenant, turning to a midshipman who stood beside him on the diminutive bridge.