Evidently the yacht was either crossing or converging upon one of the regular "lanes" of shipping; but curiously enough, Mr. Graham failed to detect any fog signals from shore stations. He had listened for the Lizard, and later on, the Eddystone, but in vain. He had to admit that he was completely out of his reckoning, but he made this admission to himself.
"Turn in, lads!" he ordered briskly. "Turn in all standing, except your shoes, in case you're wanted on deck in a hurry."
"How about you, sir?" asked the Patrol Leader. "Can't I take a watch, and let you turn in? I'm not at all sleepy really, sir."
"All right, then," agreed the Scoutmaster, inwardly glad to have company during the night watches. "You can do a trick with me on the understanding that you turn in at dawn. You others, watch below!"
Scoutmaster and Patrol Leader, both clad in oilskins in addition to their pilot jackets, prepared for their long trick. Desmond, supremely confident in his officer's capabilities, had lost that sense of dread which had gripped him in the early stages of the fog. He was rather enjoying the novelty of a night at sea in thick weather.
But not so Mr. Graham. The fog had upset all his calculations. Added to this, the obvious unreliability of the compass had destroyed his sense of direction. The leadline was all but useless. It was but twenty fathoms in length, and at no time during the fog had the crew been able to strike soundings.
It was a long night. At intervals Mr. Graham consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch, and was surprised to find how slowly the hours passed. Then there was more trouble with the compass. The light did not burn well, and condensation on the underside of the binnacle glass made it a matter of great difficulty to read the points. It was only by flashing his electric torch directly upon the card that the Scoutmaster was able to shape a course.
Yet he "kept his end up", chatting on various subjects with his youthful companion, the while stifling the ever-present suggestion that the Spindrift was lost in the fog-enshrouded English Channel.
At last the blackness of the night gave place to a greyish light that indicated dawn. The fog still held and showed no sign of dispersal, while the wind held steadily from the same quarter.
"Daybreak, Desmond!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, stretching his cramped limbs and yawning. "Down below you go. Turn Findlay out, and get him to make some hot cocoa before you turn in."