Beta Book

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
his mouth. "Hope we don't run into no ships."
He winked at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took the cue and
mourned:
"I'm kinda afraid we're going to, ain't you, Pete? The mate was
telling me he was scared we would."
"Sures' t'ing you know.


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