“Very well, Peterson. Suppose we run with the starboard screw.”
“And the intake’s clogged again with this cursed fine sand we’ve picked up.”
“After I warned Williams?”
“Yes, sir. And that’s not the worst, sir.”
“Indeed? You must be happy, Peterson!”
“We can’t log over eight knots now, and it’s sixty miles to our light back of the big key.”
“Excellent, Peterson!”
“And the glass is falling mighty fast.”
“In that case, Peterson,” said I, “the best thing you can do is to hold your course, and the best thing I can do is to get ready for lunch.”
“The best thing either of us can do is to get some sleep,” said he, “for we may not get much to-night. She’ll break somewhere after sunset to-night, very likely.”