captain called down
to me, civilly.

I accepted his invitation and ran up the steps. At his side stood a
grizzled old man with a seamed, kindly face and the wrinkled eyes of the
men who spend their lives searching through fog and darkness.

"Good day, sor," he said to me. "You're a man as is real sore needed at
Sweetapple Cove."

"I hope I may be of service," I answered.

"Ye will be, God willin'," he assured me.

By this time we had gathered full speed and were steaming fast between
the narrow headlands. The pilot was dropped a little later, without
slackening our way much. We had passed swiftly by the crowded flakes
which clung to the steep, rocky shore, inextricably mixed with
battered-looking fish-houses. As soon as we struck the swelling seas
outside we saw many little smacks engaged in fishing. We bore no canvas,
for the wind was against us on the return journey. Then I noticed that
the skipper was looking anxiously ahead, where, at a distance, a low
fog-pall was gathering.

"Yes, sor," said the old man, guessing at his thoughts, "it's a-comin' on
real thick, but we's goin' ter pull her through."

I ran below and got my oilskins out of my trunk, which I discovered in a
beautiful little state-room, prettily furnished and dainty-looking indeed
to a surgeon of tramp steamers. I did not waste much time in inspecting
it, however, as I was interested in our progress towards that ominous
bank of fog. When I reached the bridge again I was conscious of the moist
chill of northern mists, and saw that the vapor was closing down upon us
fast. The land astern was disappearing in a grey haze, while ahead the
thickness was becoming more and more impenetrable. The skipper kept
walking from end to end of the bridge, restlessly, and I could sympathize
with him. He was in a hurry, a deadly hurry, which he had shown plainly
enough from the first moment my eyes had rested upon him, and now this
mist was rendering all his haste futile, as far as I could see. Every
moment now I expected to see him ring down to the engine room for reduced
speed, but we kept on going, doggedly, blindly, until at last we were
pitching over long, smooth swells that were covered by a blanket of murk.

"We'll have to slow down, Sammy!" he suddenly cried, impatiently, to the
old man. "That fog's too much for us, and getting worse every minute."

"Keep on a bit yet," advised the latter. "'Tis all clear goin' fer a
whiles, and we's too close inshore t