For a moment the snow lifted and they caught points of light—a red and a green and several white lights. “Most of ’em still to anchor. I hope none of ’em get in our way.”
The snow fell again, and once more John Gould went aloft.
“One on the starb’d tack, Skipper.”
“Aye, don’t mind her—only on the port tack.”
“Aye. Here’s one, wherever in the devil she came—hardalee, hardalee!”
“Hardalee!” The Skipper jumped to the wheel and helped to hold it down. “Where’s she now?”
“I’ve lost her. Thick o’ snow again. Here she is—and another on the other tack.”
“God in heaven! one on each tack?”
He got no further. A hail came from somewhere aloft, and yet not from the Pantheon’s masthead—a voice, not John’s, called out something or other—a dozen voices called—a roar of voices mingled with the shriek of the wind, and then slipped by another dread shadow.
“Fifteen fathom, Skipper.”