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