Blow the Man Down - A Romance of the Coast

Another quartermaster succeeded the man at the wheel, the mate made his

notations of dead reckoning and pricked the chart, the usual routine was

proceeded with. Mayo continued at the window, head out-thrust, except

when he glanced at chart or compass or noted the dials which marked the

screws' revolutions.

Every now and then he put his ear to the submarine-signal receiver.

At last he heard the faint, far throb of the Sow and Pigs submarine

bell--seven strokes, with the four seconds' interval, then the seven

strokes repeated.

A bit later he got, sweet and low as an elfland horn, the lightship's

chime whistle. It was dead ahead, which was not exactly to his

calculation. The tide set had served stronger than he had reckoned. He

ordered the helmsman to ease her off a half-point, in order to make safe

offing for the turn into Vineyard Sound.

Well up in the sound the bell of Tarpaulin Cove reassured him, and after

a time he heard the unmistakable blast of the great reed horn of Nobska

uttering its triple hoot like a giant owl perched somewhere in the

mists.

"Nobska," said the mate. "We are certainly coming on, sir."

"Nobly," agreed Captain Mayo, allowing himself a moment of jubilation,

even though the dreaded shoals were ahead.

"Are you going to keep this speed across the shoals, Captain Mayo?"

asked the general manager, displaying real deference.

"No, sir!" stated the captain with decision, bracing himself to give

Mr. Fogg a sharp word or two if that gentleman advanced any more of his

"business man's reasons" for speed. "It would not be showing due care."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," affirmed Mr. Fogg, heartily. "It may

be a little out of place, right now, but I want you to know that I feel

that I have picked out just the right man to command this ship. I'm glad

of a chance to say this where your mates can hear me."

"Thank you, Mr. Fogg," returned the young man, gratefully. "This is

a soul-racking job, and I'm glad you are here to see what we are up

against. I don't feel that we'll be wasting much time in crossing the

shoals if we go carefully. We can let her out after we swing east of

Monomoy. She's a grand old packet."

In the gloom Fogg ran his fingers gingerly over the outside of his coat

to make sure that the strip of metal was in its place.

There was silence in the pilot-house after that. Ahead there was

ticklish navigation. There were the narrow slues, the crowding shoals,

the blind turns of Nantucket Sound, dreaded in all weathers, but a

mariner's horror in a fog.