“O-o-o-o-o-m! O-o-o-o-o-m!”
In the blinding mist I bumped into a sailor.
“Avast there, my lad,” said he. “Can’t you get your sea legs?”
“No,” I replied. “Where are we?”
“Off the banks.”
“And the fog?”
“Usual thing. She’ll burn off in a couple of hours. We have to go easy because of the Gloucester fishing fleet. Hear them!”
Indistinctly, in the murky pall, I seemed to hear the thin whining of numberless, tin fish-horns.
“Pretty weak fog-whistles, aren’t they?”
I laughed.