The distance to the mouth of the Straits was about thirty miles, and the Straits themselves have a length of thirty-five. The launch was good for fifteen knots, and though it would not be possible to go at full speed through the Narrows, they hoped, barring accidents, to do the journey in about five hours.
Having done two hours' work, Ken and Roy were relieved, and after a much needed wash, went into the cabin for a mouthful of food. Then Ken went forward, to find his father, wearing a rough black oilskin, combining the duties of look-out and skipper. At the wheel was a young Englishman named Morgan, an amateur yachtsman who knew the Straits like the palm of his hand.
'Where are we now, dad?' asked Ken.
'Opposite Bulair.'
'What—in the Straits?'
'At their mouth, Ken.'
'We haven't wasted much time, then.'
'Indeed we haven't. But I am afraid we shall have to slow a bit now. The fog is thicker than ever, there are no lights, and we don't want to come to an ignominious end by piling ourselves up on the cliffs.
'Still the fog's our best friend,' he continued, 'and we have plenty of time before us. If we average no more than half-speed we should be clear before daylight.'
For another twenty minutes they carried on at full speed through the choking smother, then Captain Carrington rang to reduce speed.