“East, five-eighths south, sir!”
“What's the next we make, captain?” asked the general manager from the gloom at the rear of the pilot-house.
“Sow and Pigs Lightship, entrance of Vineyard Sound, sir.”
“Good work! I'm going to take a turn below. See you again! What can I tell any uneasy gentleman who is afraid he'll miss a business appointment in the morning?”
“Tell him we'll be on time to the dot,” declared the captain, quietly.
Mr. Fogg closed the pilot-house door behind himself and chuckled when he eased his way down the slippery ladder.
Mr. Fogg sauntered through the brilliantly lighted saloon, hands in his pockets, giving forth an impression of a man entirely at ease. Nobody appeared to recognize the new general manager of the Vose line, and he attracted no special attention. But if any one had been sufficiently interested in Mr. Fogg to note him closely it would have been observed that his mouth worked nervously when he stood at the head of the grand stairway and stared about him. His jowls sagged. When he pulled out his handkerchief his hand trembled.
He descended the stairs to the main-deck and peered about in the smoking-quarters, running his eyes over the faces of the men gathered there. All at once he lifted his chin with a little jerk and climbed the stairs again. A big man tossed away a cigar and followed at a respectful distance. He pursued Mr. Fogg through the saloon and down a corridor and went into a stateroom on the general manager's heels.
“By gad, Burkett, I'm getting cold chills!” exploded Mr. Fogg, as soon as the door was closed.
“Don't understand just why.”