“Yes, sir.”
“Then call me if it blows any harder,” grunted Robarts.
In two hours more, tap, tap, came Bayliss, in charge. “If we don't take sail in, they'll take themselves out.”
“Furl to-gallen'sels, and call me if it gets any worse.”
In another hour Bayliss was at him again. “Blowing a gale, sir, and a Channel fog on.”
“Reef taupsles, and call me if it gets any worse.”
At daybreak Dodd was on deck, and found the ship flying through a fog so thick that her forecastle was quite invisible from the poop, and even her foremast loomed indistinct and looked distant. “You'll be foul of something or other, Sharpe,” said he.
“What is that to you?” inquired a loud rough voice behind him. “I don't allow passengers to handle my ship.”
“Then do pray handle her yourself; captain! Is this weather to go tearing happy-go-lucky up the Channel?”
“I mean to sail her without your advice, sir; and, being a seaman, I shall get all I can out of a fair wind.”