McGarver, the under-boss, was a good shepherd among the men, though he had recently lost the head foremanship by a spree complicated with language and violence.  He looked like one of the Merian bulls, with broad short neck and short curly hair above a thick-skinned deeply wrinkled low forehead.  He never undressed, but was always seen, as now, in heavy shoes and blue-gray woolen socks tucked over the bottoms of his overalls.  He was gruff and kind and tyrannical and honest.

Wrennie shook and drew his breath sharply as the foghorn yawped out its “Whawn-n-n-n” again, reminding him that they were still in the Bank fog; that at any moment they were likely to be stunned by a heart-stopping crash as some liner’s bow burst through the fo’c’sle’s walls in a collision.  Bow-plates buckling in and shredding, the in-thrust of an enormous black bow, water flooding in, cries and—­However, the horn did at least show that They were awake up there on the bridge to steer him through the fog; and weren’t They experienced seamen?  Hadn’t They made this trip ever so many times and never got killed?  Wouldn’t They take all sorts of pains on Their own account as well as on his?

But—­just the same, would he really ever get to England alive?  And if he did, would he have to go on holding his breath in terror for nine more days?  Would the fo’c’sle always keep heaving up—­up—­up, like this, then down—­down—­down, as though it were going to sink?

“How do yuh like de fog-horn, Wrennie?”

Pete, the tough, spit the question up at him from a corner of his mouth.  “Hope we don’t run into no ships.”

He winked at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took the cue and mourned: 

“I’m kinda afraid we’re going to, ain’t you, Pete?  The mate was telling me he was scared we would.”

“Sures’ t’ing you know.  Hey, Wrennie, wait till youse have to beat it down-stairs and tie up a bull in a storm.  Hully gee!  Youse’ll last quick on de game, Birdie!”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped Wrennie’s friend Morton.

But Morton was seasick; and Pete, not heeding him, outlined other dangers which he was happily sure were threatening them.  Wrennie shivered to hear that the “grub ’d git worse.”  He writhed under Pete’s loud questions about his loss, in some cattle-pen, of the gray-and-scarlet sweater-jacket which he had proudly and gaily purchased in New York for his work on the ship.  And the card-players assured him that his suit-case, which he had intrusted to the Croac ship’s carpenter, would probably be stolen by “Satan.”

Satan!  Wrennie shuddered still more.  For Satan, the gaunt-jawed hook-nosed rail-faced head foreman, diabolically smiling when angry, sardonically sneering when calm, was a lean human whip-lash.  Pete sniggered.  He dilated upon Satan’s wrath at Wrennie for not “coming across” with ten dollars for a bribe as he, Pete, had done.

(He lied, of course.  And his words have not been given literally.  They were not beautiful words.)