"Filled up this morning, sir," was Brandon's reassuring reply.
For the next hour the Puffin held on, her crew basking in the glorious sunshine. Then, with remarkable suddenness the sun disappeared in a watery haze, the temperature dropped considerably, and the crew actually found themselves shivering.
"Fog banking up," announced Mr. Grant. "Luckily we're inside the steamer track. All we'll have to mind is the cross-Channel traffic in and out of Aberstour. Put her about, Brandon. Tide's against us still. If we get closer in-shore we may dodge the worst of it."
The Patrol-leader knew his work. He was well-equipped for his position. Mr. Grant stood aside, ready to correct or criticise; but there was no occasion. The yacht ran up into the wind, fell off on the other tack and gathered way without the faintest hitch.
"Well done, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I see we shan't escape the fog. It's banking up on all sides. Now I want you to carry on and take all necessary precautions."
In a few minutes the Puffin was enshrouded in a thick, clammy bank of vapour. At times it was impossible to see the bowsprit-end from the cockpit. The wind, too, had dropped until the saturated canvas was barely drawing.
Meanwhile Brandon had told off Phillips to go for'ard as look-out; Wilson was instructed to stand by with the fog-horn; Hopcroft was given the hand-lead with instructions to sound occasionally, while the rest of the crew were to tend sheets and runners, should it be necessary to "go about."
"There's a foghorn, sir," announced Phillips after twenty minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the fog. "Two blasts—that's a sailing vessel on the port tack."
"How does the sound bear?" asked the Patrol-leader.
"On our starboard bow," replied Phillips.