"How does she head?" he asked savagely of the man at the steam-steering gear. The man spoke through the pilot-house window in a monotone:
"West—three degrees south, sir."
"That's west—one south by standard?" snapped Brownson.
"Yes, sir," said Smith.
"Let her go west—two south by binnacle—and mark the time accurately," ordered Brownson.
He would shift her a bit. The cool air seemed to come from the northward. It was as if a door in an ice box were suddenly opened and the cold air within let out in a cold, damp mass. A thin haze covered the sea. The side wash rolled away noisily, and disappeared into the mist a few fathoms from the ship's side. It seemed to thicken as the minutes passed.
Brownson was nervous. He went inside the pilot house and spoke to the engineer through the tube leading to the engine room.
"How is she going?"
"Two hundred and ten, sir; never less than two and five the watch."
"Well, she's going too almighty fast—shut her down to one hundred," snapped Brownson. "She's been doing twenty-two knots—it's too fast—too fast, anyhow, in this weather. Ten knots will do until the sun scoffs off this mist. Shut her down."