The horizon to westward and beyond the Minerva had become slightly indistinct; the horizon to eastward and behind them was still brilliant and hard.
He knew what was happening. A slight change of temperature was stealing from the west, precipitating the moisture as it came in the form of haze.
He put his hand on the lever of the telegraph and rang the engines off.
Harman said nothing. He went to the side and spat into the sea. Then he came back and stood watching.
“There’s nothing like haze to knock gun firing on the head,” said the Captain.
Harman said nothing, but moistened his lips. A minute passed, and then the Minerva, all at once, like a person showing the faintest sign of indecision, showed the faintest change in definition. The faint haze had touched her.
At the same moment the Captain rang up the engines, and ordered the helm to be put hard astarboard. The Penguin forged ahead, and began to turn.
“They’re so busy cleaning brasswork and saluting each other that they haven’t noticed Mr. Haze,” said the Captain. “They’re new to this station and don’t know that Mr. Fog is sure coming on her heels. Ah, she’s seen us, and she’s turning.”
The Minerva, in fact, had also put her helm hard astarboard.
She was making a half circle, and as small a half circle as she possibly could, but the Penguin had got a quarter circle start on her, and while the Minerva was still going about the Penguin was off.