d out-thrust, except
when he glanced at chart or compass or noted the dials which marked the
screws' revolutions.

Every now and then he put his ear to the submarine-signal receiver.
At last he heard the faint, far throb of the Sow and Pigs submarine
bell--seven strokes, with the four seconds' interval, then the seven
strokes repeated.

A bit later he got, sweet and low as an elfland horn, the lightship's
chime whistle. It was dead ahead, which was not exactly to his
calculation. The tide set had served stronger than he had reckoned. He
ordered the helmsman to ease her off a half-point, in order to make safe
offing for the turn into Vineyard Sound.

Well up in the sound the bell of Tarpaulin Cove reassured him, and after
a time he heard the unmistakable blast of the great reed horn of Nobska
uttering its triple hoot like a giant owl perched somewhere in the
mists.

"Nobska," said the mate. "We are certainly coming on, sir."

"Nobly," agreed Captain Mayo, allowing himself a moment of jubilation,
even though the dreaded shoals were ahead.

"Are you going to keep this speed across the shoals, Captain Mayo?"
asked the general manager, displaying real deference.

"No, sir!" stated the captain with decision, bracing himself to give
Mr. Fogg a sharp word or two if that gentleman advanced any more of his
"business man's reasons" for speed. "It would not be showing due care."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," affirmed Mr. Fogg, heartily. "It may
be a little out of place, right now, but I want you to know that I feel
that I have picked out just the right man to command this ship. I'm glad
of a chance to say this where your mates can hear me."

"Thank you, Mr. Fogg," returned the young man, gratefully. "This is
a soul-racking job, and I'm glad you are here to see what we are up
against. I don't feel that we'll be wasting much time in crossing the
shoals if we go carefully. We can let her out after we swing east of
Monomoy. She's a grand old packet."

In the gloom Fogg ran his fingers gingerly over the outside of his coat
to make sure that the strip of metal was in its place.

There was silence in the pilot-house after that. Ahead there was
ticklish navigation. There were the narrow slues, the crowding shoals,
the blind turns of Nantucket Sound, dreaded in all weathers, but a
mariner's horror in a fog.

Nobska's clarion call drew slowly abeam to port, and after due lapse
of time West Chop's steam-whistle lifted its g