"How far are we from Penzance now, sir?" asked Hayes.
"Bother the boy: he does ask awkward questions," thought Mr. Graham. He could not say, for the simple reason that he was out of his course; and to state that fact would be an admission of incompetence as far as his crew were concerned. It might also tend to put them in a state of alarm.
"We are not making for Penzance," he replied. "With the fog hiding everything it would be too risky to close the coast. So we are going to carry on all night, if necessary. With plenty of sea-room and a calm sea there's nothing much to worry about. Now, then. All hands below for tea. I'll take the helm until Desmond comes on deck to relieve me."
At length, the murky daylight began to fail. Night was approaching. The fog was as thick as ever, notwithstanding a faint westerly breeze that had sprung up.
Already canvas had been hoisted, and the Spindrift was gliding through the water at about 3 1/2 knots—forcing her way through the dense bank of vapour that, in the gathering darkness, could be felt—actually felt.
For hours not a sound had been heard from without. An uncanny silence was in the air. Even the breeze failed to give its tuneful song as it usually does when it hums through the rigging.
At ten o'clock a large steamer, going at high speed and blaring incessantly with her siren, passed within fifty yards of the little Spindrift; for a temporary lift in the fog showed her port light like a gigantic blur of fire. So great was the steamer's speed, that her bow wave broke completely over the yacht's weather side, causing her to roll so furiously that Hayes afterwards said it was as if the Spindrift was standing on her head.
"Not much use blowing our fog-horn," remarked Findlay. "They didn't take the slightest bit of notice."
"There's one good thing: they missed us," said Desmond.
Within the next half-hour half a dozen other craft were heard at varying distances, fortunately not close enough to cause apprehension.