Mayo hesitated a moment. They were driving into blankness which had shut
down with that smothering density which mariners call "a dungeon fog."
Saturday Cove's entrance was a distant and a small target. In spite of
steersman and mate, his was the sole responsibility.
"Will you please explain to Mr. Marston that I cannot leave the bridge?"
"You have straight orders from him, captain! You'd better stop the boat
and report."
The skipper of the Olenia was having his first taste of the
unreasoning whim of the autocrat who was entitled to break into
shipboard discipline, even in a critical moment. Mayo felt exasperation
surging in him, but he was willing to explain.
The whistler and Razee Reef had been blotted out by the fog.
"If this vessel is stopped five minutes in this tide-drift we shall lose
our bearings, sir. I cannot leave this bridge for the present."
"I'm thinking you'll leave it for good!" blurted the secretary. "You're
the first hired man who ever told Julius Marston to go bite his own
thumb."
"I may be a hired man," retorted Mayo. "But I am also a licensed
shipmaster. I must ask you to step down off the bridge."
"Does that go for all the rest of the--passengers?" asked the secretary,
angry in his turn. He dwelt on his last word. "It does--in a time like
this!"
"Very well, I'll give them that word aft."
Captain Mayo caught a side glance from Mate McGaw after a time.
"I have often wondered," remarked the mate to nobody in particular, "how
it is that so many damn fools get rich on shore."
Captain Mayo did not express any opinion on the subject. He clutched the
bridge rail and stared into the fog, and seemed to be having a lot of
trouble in choking back some kind of emotion.