"Calamity howler," Gibney growled. Half an hour later he caught
the echo of the _Bodega's_ whistle as the sound was hurled back
from the high cliffs at Land's End, off to starboard. A minute
later he heard the hoarse growl of the siren from the fog station
on Point Bonita, on the port beam. He knew where he was now with
as much certainty as if he was navigating in broad daylight, so
he loafed along a couple of hundred yards behind the _Bodega_,
until the _Maggie_ ceased pitching--when he knew he was in the
still water inside the entrance. So he sheered over to starboard,
with Neils Halvorsen heaving the lead, and dropped anchor in five
fathoms under the lee of Fort Mason. He was quite confident of
his ability to sneak along the waterfront and creep into the
_Maggie's_ berth at Jackson Street bulkhead, but having gone
astray in his calculations once that night, a vagrant sense of
consideration for Captain Scraggs decided him to take no more
risks until the fog should lift. He could hear the _Bodega_ and
the _Aphrodite_ tooting as they continued down the bay, so he
knew they were headed for their berths at the foot of Broadway,
fog or no fog.

When Captain Scraggs, having banked his fires, came up out of the
engine room, Mr. Gibney laid a great paw paternally upon the
skipper's shoulder. "Scraggsy, old salamander," he announced, "I
think I've done enough to-night to entitle me to some sleep until
this tule fog lifts. Am I right?"

"You certainly are, Gib, my dear boy."

"Very well, then. I'll turn in. As for you, old sailor, your