By one bell the mist had grown denser, and the Mate sung out sudden and angrily for the foghorn to be sounded.
"Three blasts, d'ye 'ear," said the bo'sun, passing the horn up to Dago, the look-out. "Uno! ... Doo! ... Tray!" (Three fingers held up.) ... "Tray, ye burnt scorpion! ... An' see that ye sounds 'em proper, or I'll come up there an' hide th' soul-case out o' ye! ... (Cow-punchin' hoodlum! Good job I knows 'is bloomin' lingo!)"
Now we had a tune to our early rising, a doleful tune, a tune set to the deepening mist, the heaving sea, at dismal break of day. R-r-ah! ... R-r-ah! Ra! was the way it ran; a mournful bar, with windy gasps here and there, for Dago Joe was more accustomed to a cowhorn.
"A horn," said Welsh John suddenly. "Did 'oo hear it?"
No one had heard. We were gathered round the galley door, all talking, all telling the 'doctor' the best way to light a fire quickly.
"Iss! A horn, I tell 'oo! ... Listen! ... Just after ours is sounded!"
R-r-ah! ... R-r-ah! ... R-ah! Joe was improving.
We listened intently.... "There now," said John!
Yes! Sure enough! Faint rasps answering ours. Ulrichs said three; two, I thought!
"Don't ye 'ear that 'orn, ye dago fiddler," shouted the bo'sun.... "'Ere! Hup there, one of ye, an' blow a proper blast! That damn hoodlum! Ye couldn't 'ear 'is trumpetin' at th' back of an area railin's!"