no longer careless summer sailing. The wall of mist was moving to meet them. John, steering, was watching the compass as if his life depended on keeping the needle steady. Everybody was on the alert, waiting for orders, knowing that there must be no mistakes and that if anything needed doing it would need doing at once. The hatch over the engine room was open. Roger, his eyes sparkling, was standing by, his hands hovering over the controls. The mist rolled over the Sea Bear, and from the cockpit it was hard to see the little flag at the masthead. A clanking of iron told that Nancy and Captain Flint, grey ghosts on the foredeck, were making ready the anchor.
Captain Flint came aft and glanced at the compass.
“Keep her going as she is, John,” he said.
“West and a half north,” said John.
“We want someone at the cross-trees … Dick … no … I forgot your glasses.” (Dick was cleaning his dimmed spectacles.) “Peggy. I may want Susan to lend a hand with the anchor. Nancy’ll be busy from now on. Everybody else, keep your eyes skinned and sing out the moment you see anything. Anything. Don’t wait till you are sure what it is. Sing out if you see anything at all. Roger, stand by to stop her at once and go astern if I shout.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” said Roger.
“Titty. Nip below and bring up that tin of tallow for the lead. Fo’c’sle. Starboard side, top shelf.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” Titty was gone.
“Chug … chug … chug … chug …”
The Sea Bear moved on in a white world of her own.
“It’s like being a caterpillar inside a cocoon,” thought Dick, hurriedly wiping his spectacles, putting them on and trying to see, not quite sure whether or not the mist was on his spectacles as well as all about him.
Nancy, at the starboard shrouds, a lifeline round her made fast to the rigging, so that she could use both hands without fear of falling overboard, was getting ready to swing the lead. Now, now … The lead dangled three feet or more below her right hand, the big coil of the lead-line, with its marks at every fathom, in her left. She was swinging the lead, fore and aft, in wider and wider swings. She was whirling it over and over, round and again and away … She had let go of it and the lead was flying out ahead of the ship. Nobody aboard could do that as well as she. Dick could see her feeling for it as the ship caught it up, dipping, as if she were fishing with a handline.
“No bottom at twelve fathoms,” she called out.
“Carry on,” called Captain Flint.
Titty came up through the companion instead of through the forehatch because that was closed to give more room for the chain that lay ranged ready to pour out through the fairlead as soon as the anchor was let go. She had a tin in her hand. She crouched by the mast, to be ready with the grease the moment it was wanted. Dick, as so often before, felt that, in this ship-load of experienced sailors, he and Dorothea were no more than passengers. They knew how to sail their little Scarab, but this was the first time they had been to sea. There was nothing for them to do except to keep out of other people’s way and to be ready to obey orders in case anybody should think it worth while to give them any.
Splash. Again the lead fell after Nancy had sent it flying forward. Again she was dipping, dipping. Again she was hauling it in hand over hand.
“No bottom at twelve.”
There was a sudden shrieking of gulls. Captain Flint, who had been glancing at the little chart, looked up from it to watch Nancy, as if he were waiting for the answer to an urgent question.
Splash.
“No bottom at twelve.”
“We must be pretty near in,” said Captain Flint to John. “We ought to be getting the bottom by now.”
Splash.
Nancy, hauling in the line and dipping, turned suddenly to shout, “Twelve fathoms.”
“Arm the lead,” said Captain Flint.
Dick saw Titty scoop something out of the tin with her fingers and poke it into the hole he had often noticed at the bottom of the lead.
“Hurry up,” Captain Flint was saying, low, to himself, not for Nancy or Titty to hear. Anybody could see that they were being as quick as they could.
Splash.
Nancy was hauling in. She was dipping. “Eleven,” she shouted, and went on hauling, coiling as she hauled, grabbed the lead as soon as she could reach it and looked at the bottom of it. “Eleven and soft mud,” she called out.
So that was how it was done, thought Dick. The grease on the bottom of the lead brought up a sample of the bottom to help the skipper who was feeling his way in. He knew now what was the use of those little notes dotted about on the charts … “s” for sand, “m” for mud, “sh” for shell, and so on. This was the first time he had seen them bother about arming the lead. They had often sounded to make sure of the depth when they were making ready to anchor. This time they wanted to know more. They wanted every little bit of knowledge that might help them with this white mist blindfolding their eyes.
INTO THE MIST
Splash.
“Nine and a half … mud and shell …”
“Do we … ?”
“Shut up,” said Captain Flint. “Listen!”
Gulls were squawking somewhere to starboard, high above them.
“Cliff?” muttered Captain Flint.
The chugging of the engine sounded suddenly different, as steps do when they go over a wooden bridge after walking on solid road.
“West,” said Captain Flint to John.
“West it is, Sir,” said John quietly.
“If that’s the north side of the place,” said Captain Flint, we must be clear now of any tide there is across the entrance.”
“He’s very pleased,” Dorothea whispered to Dick.
“Nine fathom … mud and shell.”
A bird flew close by the stern of the ship.
“Guillemot,” said Dick. “At least, I think so.”
“Eh! What’s that?”
“Sorry,” said Dick. “It was only that I saw a bird.” “Something to starboard,” yelled Peggy, high in the mist. “No … It’s gone. I can’t see anything now, but there was something.”
“She may have caught a glimpse of the cliff,” said Captain Flint to John. “We must be pretty near. Sorry. Don’t listen to me.” He grinned at Dick. “You watch your steering.”
