"Where does he
expect we'll be, with these currents evolutin' like sailormen at the
Agricultural Hall?"
I left the bridge to watch the wire-rope at the stern as it drew out and
smacked down upon the water. By what instinct or guidance 267 kept it from
fouling her languidly flapping propeller, I cannot tell. The fog now
thickened and thinned in streaks that bothered the eyes like the glare of
intermittent flash-lamps; by turns granting us the vision of a sick sun
that leered and fled, or burying all a thousand fathom deep in gulfs of
vapours. At no time could we see the trawler though we heard the click of
her windlass, the jar of her trawl-beam, and the very flap of the fish on
her deck. Forward was Pyecroft with the lead; on the bridge Moorshed pawed
a Channel chart; aft sat I, listening to the whole of the British
Mercantile Marine (never a keel less) returning to England, and watching
the fog-dew run round the bight of the tow back to its mother-fog.
"Aie! yeou little man-o'-war! We'm done with trawl. You can take us home
if you know the road."
"Right O!" said Moorshed. "We'll give the fishmonger a run for his money.
Whack her up, Mr. Hinchcliffe."
The next few hours completed my education. I saw that I ought to be
afraid, but more clearly (this was when a liner hooted down the back of my
neck) that any fear which would begin to do justice to the situation
would, if yielded to, incapacitate me for the rest of my days.
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