“Yes, sor,” said the old man, guessing at his thoughts, “it’s a-comin’ on real thick, but we’s goin’ ter pull her through.”

I ran below and got my oilskins out of my trunk, which I discovered in a beautiful little state-room, prettily furnished and dainty-looking indeed to a surgeon of tramp steamers.  I did not waste much time in inspecting it, however, as I was interested in our progress towards that ominous bank of fog.  When I reached the bridge again I was conscious of the moist chill of northern mists, and saw that the vapor was closing down upon us fast.  The land astern was disappearing in a grey haze, while ahead the thickness was becoming more and more impenetrable.  The skipper kept walking from end to end of the bridge, restlessly, and I could sympathize with him.  He was in a hurry, a deadly hurry, which he had shown plainly enough from the first moment my eyes had rested upon him, and now this mist was rendering all his haste futile, as far as I could see.  Every moment now I expected to see him ring down to the engine room for reduced speed, but we kept on going, doggedly, blindly, until at last we were pitching over long, smooth swells that were covered by a blanket of murk.

“We’ll have to slow down, Sammy!” he suddenly cried, impatiently, to the old man.  “That fog’s too much for us, and getting worse every minute.”

“Keep on a bit yet,” advised the latter. “‘Tis all clear goin’ fer a whiles, and we’s too close inshore ter run into any big craft.  They’ll all be standin’ out to sea.”

I could see that the captain was torn between his keen desire to keep on speeding and his fear for the safety of his beautiful ship.  He was utterly unable to keep still more than a minute at a time, but the old fisherman looked as cool and collected as if he had been puffing at his rank old pipe within the four walls of a house.

And those minutes seemed very long, then, as they always do when men are laden with the weight of constant suspense.  Presently even the grey and blue waters our sharp bow was cleaving lost their color and the whole world was dismal, and grey, and dripping.

This went on for long hours, as it seemed to me, and finally the captain could stand it no longer.

“I’m going to ring for half speed,” he shouted.  “We can’t keep this up, Sammy!”

“Let be, let be fer a whiles,” the old man counselled again.  “I knows jist where I be.  I’ll not be runnin’ ye ashore, lad.”

And the yacht kept on for a long, long time, cleaving the grey water and the fog, between which there was no difference now.  It was really a spooky thing, even if a sporting one, to be dashing at fifteen knots through that wall of vapor.  Our steam whistle was sounding constantly, and old Sammy listened with his grey head cocked to one side, in a tense attitude of constant attention.

“We’s gettin’ nigh,” he said, quietly.  “I knows the sound o’ he.”