III
It was night, and a northeast gale and falling snow was making the thick night thicker. The Lucy Foster had come across the Gulf like a runaway horse, and now they were expecting to strike in somewhere.
Wesley was standing aft, when a long, low, warning moan came to them over the water. “There’s the whistle—we ought to see Cranberry Light soon—watch out.”
The forward watch, hanging on to her fore-rigging and peering sharply ahead, soon called out: “There it is—no—it’s a vessel’s port light.”
Wesley looked. “’Tis a vessel, sure enough, and hove-to, ain’t she? Maybe we’d better speak her”—this last to the man at the wheel. The helmsman brought her up, and “Hi-i!” roared Wesley.
“Hi-i!” came back—“who’re you?”
Wesley swore softly. “Harry Glover, by the Lord! Here, Charlie, you answer him. There ain’t many knows you. Ask him what’s wrong—and don’t get too near him, you to the wheel.”
“What’s wrong?” called Charlie Green.
“Nothin’—just waitin’ for a chance to go into Canso.”
“Well, why don’t you go in—what’s holdin’ you back?”