shriek of the government tug, the hoarse bellow of the ocean liner,
and the fog whistle on Yerba Buena Island, all joined in a strident
warning, sending their intermittent blast over the water.

[Illustration: FOG ON THE BAY]

Our engines were slowed down to half-speed, or just enough to give her
steerage way, while the anxious captain peered from the wheelhouse
with one hand grasping the signal cord, ready for any emergency.

The sea gulls that in clear weather follow the boats back and forth
across the bay by the hundreds, were entirely absent, except for one
sturdy bird that, evidently bewildered, had lost its way in the fog,
and had alighted on the flagpole as if for protection.

Suddenly across our bows a darker spot appeared, which gradually
assumed shape, and a Southern Pacific boat loomed like a specter from
the smother of fog. The size was greatly enlarged as seen through the
veil of mist, and the dense smoke that poured from her funnel settled
around her like a pall, adding greatly to its weird appearance.

Our captain was on the watch for just such an occurrence, and three
short, sharp blasts from our whistle notified the oncoming boat that
we had stopped our engines. But the tide was running strong, and we
drew closer and closer together, until we involuntarily held our
breath, and nerves were strung to the highest tension. The great
screws churned the water into foam as we slowly backed away from each
other, like gladiators testing each other's strength, and the Southern
Pacific boat vanished into the fog like a ghost, swallowed up, as if
wiped from the face of the waters, sending back its deep bellowing