The fog came on. It reached the Lady May, passed over her, and shut her within gray, wet walls. It was impossible to see a length from her side. Sam swore emphatically. The skipper was provokingly calm. He stepped to the engine, bent over it, and then returned to the wheel.
“What are you doing?” demanded Bartlett.
“Slowin' down, of course. Can't run more'n ha'f speed in a fog like this. 'Tain't safe.”
“Safe! What do I care? I want to get to Trumet.”
“Yes? Well, maybe we'll git there if we have luck.”
“You idiot! We've GOT to get there. How can you tell which way to steer? Get your compass, man! get your compass!”
“Ain't got no compass,” was the sulky answer. “Left it to home.”
“Why, no, you didn't. I—”
“I tell you I did. 'Twas careless of me, I know, but—”
“But I say you didn't. When you went uptown after that quahaug rake I explored this craft of yours some. The compass is in that little closet at the end of the cabin. I'll get it.”