up on the arming. Fog or no fog, we were, at
least, dunting the 'blue pigeon' on English ground, and we felt, as day
wore on and the fog thinned and turned to mist and rain, that a
landfall was not yet beyond hope.

A change of weather was coming, a change that neither the Old Man nor
the Mate liked, to judge by their frequent visits to the barometers.
At noon the wind hauled into the sou'-west and freshened, white tops
curled out of the mist and broke in a splutter of foam under the
quarter, Channel gulls came screaming and circling high o'er our
heads--a sure sign of windy weather. A gale was in the making; a
rushing westerly gale, to clear the Channel and blow the fog-rack
inland.

"I don't like the looks o' this, Mister." The Old Man was growing
anxious; we had seen nothing, had heard nothing to make us confident of
our reckoning. "That aneroid's dropped a tenth since I tapped it last,
an' th' mercurial's like it had no bottom! There's wind behind this,
sure; and if we see naught before 'four bells,' I'm goin' out t' look
for sea-room. Channel fogs, an' sou'-westers, an' fifteen-knot liners
in charge o' b----y lunatics! Gad! there's no room in th' English
Channel now for square sail, an' when ye----"

"Sail O! On the port bow, Sir!" Keen, homeward-bound eyes had sighted
a smudge on the near horizon.

"Looks like a fisherman," said the Mate, screwing at his glasses.
"He's standing out."

"Well, we'll haul up t' him, anyway," answered the Old Man. "Starboard
a point--mebbe he can give us the bearin' o' th' Lizard."

Bearing up, we were soon within hailing distance. She was a Cardiff
pilot cutter; C.F. and a number, painted black on her mains'l, showed
us that. As we drew on she hoisted the red and white of a pilot on
station.

"The barque--ahoy! Where--are--'oo--bound?" A cheering hail that
brought all hands to the rails, to stare with interest at the
oilskin-clad figures of the pilot's crew.

"Falmouth--for orders!"

"Ah!"--a disappointed note--"'oo are standin' too far t' th' west'ard,
Capt'in. I saw the Falmouth cutter under th' land, indeed, before the
fog came down. Nor'-by-east--that'll fetch 'm!"

"Thank 'ee! How does the Lizard bear?"

"'Bout nor'-nor'-west, nine mile, I sh'd say. Stand
in--as--far--as--thirty-five--fathoms--no less!" The pilot's Channel
voice carried far.

"Thank Heaven! That's definite, anyway," said the Old Man, turning to
wave a hand towards the cutter,