"Yes, I know we have, but I always have a feeling of dread. Somehow, now, I feel unusually nervous about it."
"You aren't losing your nerve, are you?" the young helper asked his chief.
"No—but—well, I don't like it, that's all."
"Shall I ask the captain to anchor?"
"No, he's anxious to keep on. We'll try it, Andy, but we'll both stay in the pilot-house until we're well past the dangerous point, that one where the rocks stick out."
"But there's a lighthouse there, Mr. Weatherby."
"I know there is, but if this fog keeps on getting thicker, the light will do us very little good."
Nat listened anxiously to the conversation. This was a part of the responsibilities of piloting that had not occurred to him. More than on a captain, the safety of a vessel rests on a pilot, when one is in charge. And it is no small matter to feel that one can, by a slight shift of his hand, send a gallant craft to her destruction, or guide her to safety.
As night came on the fog grew thicker. Mr. Weatherby and his helper did not leave the pilot-house, but had their meals sent to them. Captain Marshall was in frequent consultation with them, and the speed of the vessel was cut down almost one-half as they approached the danger point.
From Mr. Dunn, Nat learned when they were in the unsafe passage, for the purser had been over that route many times.