"That's Oldbury Head, Mr. Stevens," remarked Captain Quelch, addressing the second officer. "Ease her off a point. We can't run risks in a fog like this."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the second officer, although he could not account for his superior's excess of caution. Already on the course set, the Getalong would be well clear of all headlands until abreast of St. Catherine's.
With her syren going at frequent intervals, the old tramp wallowed through the mirk of grey, oily sea and grey, clammy fog. Once or twice a foghorn was heard bleating feebly, but not sufficiently near to be considered dangerous.
Again the skipper approached the charthouse, peered at the clock and shuffled to the weather-side of the bridge.
Suddenly the old tramp quivered and appeared to come to a dead stop. Then with an equally abrupt jerk she forged ahead again.
"What's that, Mr. Stevens?" shouted the captain. "Don't say we've run something down?"
"Fo'c'sle there!" hailed the second officer. "Anything under our bows?"
"Nothing, sir," came a husky voice from the invisible fo'c'sle.
"Bit of wreckage, perhaps, sir," suggested Stevens. "Hope she hasn't started a plate—they're none too sound."
"Tell the carpenter to try the well," ordered Captain Quelch. "No—better go yourself, Mr. Stevens. Look alive."