“East, a half nothe, it is, sir!”
At least, he had conquered East River, the Gate, and the narrows beyond, and had many miles straight ahead to the whistler off Point Judith. He was resolved to be thankful for small favors.
He hoped that with the coming of the night and on account of the prevalence of the fog he would find that shipping of the ordinary sort had stopped moving. However, in a few minutes he heard telltale whistles ahead, and he signaled half speed. A lumbering old lighter with a yawing derrick passed close aboard. An auxiliary fisherman, his exhaust snapping like a machine-gun, and seeming to depend on that noise for warning, was overtaken.
“Can you leave that window for a minute, Captain Mayo?” asked the general manager.
The captain promptly joined Mr. Fogg at the rear of the spacious pilot-house.
“See here, Cap,” remonstrated his superior, “I came down through these waters on the Triton of the Union line the other day, and she made her time. What's the matter with us?”
“I'm obeying the law, sir. And there are new warnings just issued.” He pointed to the placard headed “Safety First” in big, red letters. “The word has been passed that the first captain who is caught with the goods will be made an example of.”
“Is that so?” commented Fogg, studying the end of his cigar. His tone was a bit peculiar. “But the Triton came along.”
“And she nigh rammed the Nequasset in the fog the last trip I made up the coast. It was simply touch and go, Mr. Fogg, and all her fault. We were following the rules to the letter.”
“And that's one way of spoiling the business of a steamboat line,” snapped Fogg. He added, to himself, “But it isn't my way!”