Commander Nettlebones was not of poetic, philosophic, or vague mind. “What a d——d fog!” he exclaimed in the morning; and he used the same words in the afternoon, through a speaking-trumpet, as the two other cutters ranged up within hail. This they did very carefully, at the appointed rendezvous, toward the fall of the afternoon, and hauled their wind under easy sail, shivering in the southwestern breeze.
“Not half so bad as it was,” returned Bowler, being of a cheerful mind. “It is lifting every minute, sir. Have you had sight of anything?”
“Not a blessed stick, except a fishing-boat. What makes you ask, lieutenant?”
“Why, sir, as we rounded in, it lifted for a moment, and I saw a craft some two leagues out, standing straight in for us.”
“The devil you did! What was she like? and where away, lieutenant?”
“A heavy lugger, under all sail, about E.N.E, as near as may be. She is standing for Robin Hood's Bay, I believe. In an hour's time she will be upon us, if the weather keeps so thick.”
“She may have seen you, and sheered off. Stand straight for her, as nigh as you can guess. The fog is lifting, as you say. If you sight her, signal instantly. Lieutenant Donovan, have you heard Bowler's news?”
“Sure an' if it wasn't for the fog, I would. Every word of it come to me, as clear as seeing.”
“Very well. Carry on a little to the south, half a league or so, and then stand out, but keep within sound of signal. I shall bear up presently. It is clearing every minute, and we must nab them.”
The fog began to rise in loops and alleys, with the upward pressure of the evening breeze, which freshened from the land in lines and patches, according to the run of cliff. Here the water darkened with the ruffle of the wind, and there it lay quiet, with a glassy shine, or gentle shadows of variety. Soon the three cruisers saw one another clearly; and then they all sighted an approaching sail.