“Something’s wrong,” Norah decided. “It can’t be boat-drill for us, ’cause that’s two short, sharp whistles. Everything’s funny and dim—I believe something has gone wrong with the electric light supply.” She jumped, as the long scream came again.
Then she heard her father’s voice, quiet and steadying.
“Awake, Norah? Not scared, are you?”
“N-no, I don’t think so, Daddy,” Norah answered, not quite certain if she were speaking the truth. “Is it the Germans?”
“It’s fog, I think,” Mr. Linton said, coming in. “My cabin is full of it—and so is yours.”
Voices were breaking out everywhere, drowned at regular intervals by the long howl.
“What’s the matter?”
“Is it the Germans?”
“We’re wrecked, I suppose.” This was an elderly lady’s voice, in lugubrious certainty.
“It’s boat-drill—hurry up!”