"Ah, thanks, I will," said the geologist pleasantly. "Mr. Watts is a well-informed man?"
"Rather," said Prowse, nodding; "there's not a den o' thieves in any port in Europe he can't find blindfold. And 'e knows more about icebergs than me, for he once went a trip in a Dundee whaler. He ain't proud of it, and don't talk of it much, for whalers is no class, as you may guess. But he's keen on knowledge, is Watts, I'll say that for him. You might do worse than ask him for some ackerate information. He's a perfect whale on fogs, too!"
If Mr. Watts was the authority on fogs that his captain made out, he soon had an opportunity of showing it, for half-way across the Banks it was impossible to see farther than one could throw half a hundredweight, and the Nemagosenda went tooting in darkness. But every now and again in this dim world the men of science were alarmed and entertained by sudden battles in blasphemy between Captain Prowse, or the well-informed Mr. Watts, and the crew of a Bank fisherman. For fog blankets sound in the oddest, most erratic way, and the throb of a screw cannot always be heard even in the calmest foggy weather. Such swearing matches between the Nemagosenda and a smack were, when apparently good for three minutes or so, sometimes sliced right in two by the sudden dropping down of what the meteorologist called an "anacoustic" wall of fog. Like the last words of Don Whiskerandos in A Tragedy Rehearsed, a speech was cut off in the very flower of its youth.
"Where the blue blinding blazes are you coming to?" asked a faint nocturne. And when Captain Prowse had expended his last carefully prepared oration, the right of maritime reply only conferred an audible "Oh, you dog——"
"We have to thank the anacoustic properties of that fog-bank for the sudden conclusion," said the meteorologist, "for if I'm any judge of human nature, that smacksman is still firing red-hot words into space."
"Yes, sir," said Prowse indignantly, "they're a foul-mouthed lot. It's as much as I can do to keep even with 'em. But I'll slow down no more."
He telegraphed "Full speed ahead" and left Mr. Watts with awfully worded instructions to sink anything, from a battleship to the meanest brig afloat. In the saloon he sat at the head of the table, and drank rum hot.
"Science proves that rum 'ot is the sailor's drink," said Captain Prowse, "and the correct drink. For we all drink it, and flourish on it. And the reason is that it goes by contraries. It's cold work bein' at sea, and so we takes it 'ot; and the sea is salt, so we takes it sweet: and it comes from the West Indies."
"And that proves it," said the geologist warmly. "What a head you have, Captain Prowse!"
The skipper nodded.