sed engines and the uneasy lurch
of our barque, now all aback, to tell of a tragedy averted.

"Oh! The murderin' ruffians! The b----y sojers!" The crisis over,
the Old Man was beside himself with rage and indignation. "Full speed
through weather like this! Blast ye!" he yelled, hollowing his hands.
"What--ship--is--that?"

No answer came out of the fog. The throb of engines died away in a
steady rhythm; they would be on their course again, 'slowed down,'
perhaps, to twelve knots, now that the nerves of the officer of the
watch had been shaken.

Slowly our barque was turned on heel, the yards trimmed to her former
course, and we moved on, piercing the clammy barrier that lay between
us and a landfall.

"Well, young fellers? Wha' d'ye think o' that now?" Bo'sun was the
first of us to regain composure. "Goin' dead slow, worn't 'e? 'Bout
fifteen, I sh'd siy! That's the wye wi' them mail-boat fellers:
Monday, five 'undred mile; Toosd'y, four-ninety-nine; We'n'sd'y,
four-ninety-height 'n 'arf--'slowed on haccount o' fog'--that's wot
they puts it in 'er bloomin' log, blarst 'em!"

"Silence, there--main-deck!" The Old Man was pacing across the break
of the poop, pausing to listen for sound of moving craft.

Bo'sun Hicks, though silenced, had yet a further lesson for us
youngsters, who might one day be handling twenty-knot liners in such a
fog. In the ghostly light of fog and breaking day he performed an
uncanny pantomime, presenting a liner's officer, resplendent in collar
and cuff, strutting, mincing, on a steamer's bridge. (Sailormen walk
fore and aft; steamboat men, athwart.)

"Haw!" he seemed to say, though never a word passed his lips. "Haw!
Them wind-jammers--ain't got no proper fog'orns. Couldn't 'ear 'em at
th' back o' a moskiter-net! An' if we cawn't 'ear 'em, 'ow do we know
they're there, haw! So we bumps 'em, an' serve 'em dem well right,
haw!"

It was extraordinary! Here was a man who, a few minutes before, might,
with all of us, have been struggling for his life!

Dawn broke and lightened the mist about us, but the pall hung thick as
ever over the water. At times we could hear the distant note of a
steamer's whistle; once we marked a sailing vessel, by sound of her
horn, as she worked slowly across our bows, giving the three mournful
wails of a running ship. Now and again we cast the lead, and it was
something to see the Channel bottom--grains of sand, broken
shell-pebbles--brought