Once clear of the harbour, the Sub called to a seaman.
"Take her," he ordered, handing over the wheel. "Keep her as she is: south a half west."
"South a half west it is, sir," replied the man in the time-honoured formula of the sea.
Free to devote his attention to other things, McIntosh secured the storm-flap of his oilskin coat and, leaving the shelter of the wheel-house, looked towards the following boat.
No. 6 was coming along well. The "bone in her teeth" glistened white as she pushed her snub nose through the waves. Both craft were "taking it green" as the water flowed over the tarpaulined hatches and surged along the broad waterways.
"We'll carry our tide for another hour," he said to himself. "Then it'll be a slow job. One thing, we can't have every blessed thing in life, but I hope to goodness nothing goes wrong."
He glanced ahead. In an incredibly short space of time, the bold outlines of Dunkennet Head had vanished. Dead to windward haze, possibly fog, was bearing down. It was something that McIntosh had not bargained for. The glass had shown indications of fine weather, but unfortunately it was not capable of indicating the approach of mist.
"Hazy ahead," he remarked to the petty officer.
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Will you be altering course a point or so, sir? There's a nasty set of the tide inshore about these parts."
"Yes," decided the Sub, and gave the necessary instructions to the helmsman.