“By some old sailors.”
“You were certainly right to go,” said the Guernsey man. “Who knows whether there will not be a tempest to-morrow? At this season you may wait and find it worse.”
A few moments later, the Durande entered the fog bank.
The effect was singular. Suddenly those who were on the after-deck could not see those forward. A soft grey medium divided the ship in two.
Then the entire vessel passed into the fog. The sun became like a dull red moon. Everybody suddenly shivered. The passengers put on their overcoats, and the sailors their tarpaulins. The sea, almost without a ripple, was the more menacing from its cold tranquillity. All was pale and wan. The black funnel and the heavy smoke struggled with the dewy mist which enshrouded the vessel.
Dropping to westward was now useless. The captain kept the vessel’s head again towards Guernsey, and gave orders to put on the steam.
The Guernsey passenger, hanging about the engine-room hatchway, heard the negro Imbrancam talking to his engineer comrade. The passenger listened. The negro said:
“This morning, in the sun, we were going half steam on; now, in the fog, we put on steam.”
The Guernsey man returned to Clubin.
“Captain Clubin, a look-out is useless; but have we not too much steam on?”