He did. Still no echo. He was inclined to believe that Captain Scraggs had not read the taffrail log correctly, and when at eight-thirty he tried the whistle again he was still without results in the way of an echo from the cliff, albeit the engine room howler brought him several of a profuse character from the perspiring McGuffey.
"We've passed Pedro," Mr. Gibney decided. He ground his cud and muttered ugly things to himself, for his dead reckoning had gone astray and he was worried. The fog, if anything, was thicker than ever. He could not even make out the phosphorescent water that curled out from the Maggie's forefoot.
Time passed. Suddenly Mr. Gibney thrilled electrically to a shrill yip from Captain Scraggs.
"What's that?" Mr. Gibney bawled.
"I dunno. Sounds like the surf, Gib."
"Ain't you been on this run long enough to know that the surf don't sound like nothin' else in life but breakers?" Gibney retorted wrathfully.
"I ain't certain, Gib."
Instantly Gibney signalled McGuffey for half speed ahead.
"Breakers on the starboard bow," yelled Captain Scraggs.
"Port bow," The Squarehead corrected him.