now fast merging into the mist astern.
"Nor'-nor'-west, nine mile," he said. "That last sight of ours was a
long way out. A good job I held by th' lead. Keep 'er as she's goin',
Mister; I'll away down an' lay her off on th' chart--nor'-nor'-west,
nine mile," he kept repeating as he went below, fearing a momentary
forgetfulness.

In streaks and patches the mist was clearing before the westering wind.
To seaward we saw our neighbours of the fog setting on their ways. Few
were standing out to sea, and that, and the sight of a fleet of
fishermen running in to their ports, showed that no ordinary weather
lay behind the fast-driving fog-wreaths. North of us heavy masses of
vapour, banked by the breeze, showed where the land lay, but no
land-mark, no feature of coast or headland, stood clear of the mist to
guide us. Cautiously, bringing up to cast the lead at frequent
intervals, we stood inshore, and darkness, falling early, found us
a-lee of the land with the misty glare of the Lizard lights broad on
our beam. Here we 'hove-to' to await a pilot--"Thirty-five fathoms, no
less," the Welshman had advised--and the frequent glare of our
blue-light signals showed the Old Man's impatience to be on his way
again to Falmouth and shelter.

Eight we burnt, guttering to their sockets, before we saw an answering
flare, and held away to meet the pilot. A league or so steady running,
and then--to the wind again, the lights of a big cutter rising and
falling in the sea-way, close a-lee.

"What--ship?" Not Stentor himself could have bettered the speaker's
hail.

"The _Florence_, of Glasgow: 'Frisco t' Channel. Have ye got my
orders?"

A moment of suspense. Hull, it might be, or the Continent: the answer
might set us off to sea again.

"No--not now! (We're right--for Falmouth.) We had 'm a fortnight
agone, but they'm called in since. A long passage, surely, Captain?"

"Aye! A hundred an' thirty-two days--not countin' three week at th'
Falklan's, under repair. ... Collision with ice in fifty-five, south!
... No proper trades either; an' 'doldrums'! ... A long passage,
Pilot!"

"Well, well! You'm be goin' on t' Falmouth, I reckon--stan' by t' put
a line in my boat!" A dinghy put off from the cutter; a frail
cockle-shell, lurching and diving in the short Channel sea, and soon
our pilot was astride the rail, greeting us, as one sure of a welcome.

"You'm jest in time, Capten. It's goin' t' blow, I tell 'ee--(Main