THE FOG LIFTS.
“I do like a man like that!” bubbled old Steve delightedly, as he
dropped a box of tools at my feet.
I found no words in reply, so we two went right at the repairing, and
the job was really simple enough.
The engine, a four-cylinder affair of the “heavy-duty” type, was bedded
between the two masts. This arrangement, of course, necessitated a
piercing of the foot of the mainmast for the shaft as it ran aft to the
screw.
Now, what had happened was simply that, in the strain before the actual
break at the deck, the bronze shaft had been thrown out of line. So it
bound against the bearing through the mast.
It was but a quarter hour’s work to saw above and below the bend. I
couldn’t get the shaft to exact trueness, of course; but the line from
engine coupling to shaft log ran fair enough, so that, before a half
hour was up, I sent old Steve to deck.
Then followed the jangle of the bell right alongside me, and I started
the engine.
There came immediately a gurgle along the planking. The _Ruby Light_ was
once more under way.
I was soon joined in the engine room again by old Steve.
“How’s she runnin’?” he inquired, as he bit off a chew of plug, mumbling
over the process of getting the exact break.
“Sweet enough,” I replied, “though she ought not to be driven any too
long with even that bit of a crook.” I indicated the bend in the shaft.
“A long spell would wear the stern bearing out of----”
“Which the same’s just wot I was a-tellin’ the old man just now. Kind o’
struck him like, too, I reckon; fer I hearn him shift the course sommat
ter the Stevens lad.”
“Shift the course?” I queried, masking my interest as much as possible,
but not enough to keep the old fellow from hedging on his tongue. He
shifted the topic abruptly.
“And now, laddie, I guess as how there ain’t no more occasion ter keep
you from deck, though the same which you done down here was mighty
good,” he said meaningly.
I acknowledged the appreciation with a shrug, gave him a cordial “So
long,” and sought the deck.
Fog is even more whimsical than woman. And the quick survey I gave to
the weather, as I stood a minute by the engine-room hatch, showed that
this one had about made up its mind to lift again. At any rate, it was
distinctly thinner.
I started aft along the cluttered deck toward Stevens, who was again at
the wheel, but before I reached his side, Stroth had joined him from the
main companionway.
The owner gave a critical scan to starboard, then spoke a word to
Stevens, with a nod at the binnacle, and slowly the spokes went over to
port. This, just as I was about to join them.
“I hope your hand is all right, sir,” said I, in genuine solicitude.
“Right as a trivet,” he replied, holding it forward for inspection.
“Isn’t all that gauze and stuff just shipshape and Bristol-fashion,
though? I tell you, Stella’s a trump when it comes to the nursing game.
You see, those convent sisters she’s been with these three years
are----”
He stopped himself, and inquired sharply:
“How’re things with the motor?”
“Well enough, if you don’t run it too long that way.”
“So old Steve tells me. Well, how long do you think----”
I anticipated his thought. “She could run without much trouble for
twelve hours or thereabout,” was my verdict.
His brow cleared perceptibly as he cried:
“Good enough--and long enough!” He nodded to Stevens, as though in
confirmation of some point, before he added to me:
“Our little pleasure voyage to Savannah is getting a dash of adventure
in it, isn’t it, Grey?” He indicated the wreckage-strewn decks before
us. “But it’s fine!”
It certainly was a novel viewpoint from which to estimate a damage of at
least a thousand odd dollars. An absolutely unnecessary damage, at
that--and to a yacht as smart and trim as they make ’em.
I couldn’t find it in me to agree with his enthusiasm, so I changed the
subject.
“She runs very well under power,” I said.
“Doesn’t she?” came his hearty response. “A good, honest, mile-eating
pace, which is not at all bad for an auxiliary. I think we ought to make
Fire Island by some time after nightfall or thereabout, don’t you?”
“Fire Island!” I exclaimed. He had betrayed me into an expression of the
genuine surprise I experienced, and he laughed easily as he went on:
“Exactly. I could scarcely continue in this fashion to Savannah, could
I? And so, since you’re bound to know it sooner or later, I see no
reason to avoid explaining a bit.”
“Now naturally,” and he smiled again, “I’ve got to find some cove to lie
in while I refit. Of course, those masts are going to be pretty short
and stumpy when I restep them; but with reefs tied in, and engine going,
too, I guess we can be on our way again well within a week, eh?”
“But why not shift over to Greenport, and put two new sticks in her at
the shipyard there?” I volunteered thoughtlessly.
His grin became broader than ever.
“I believe a little spot behind a couple of those low-lying islands in
Great South Bay would suit me better; that is, under the
circumstances.”
“Oh, I forgot!” I cried, laughing, too.
Here we both wheeled to a shout from Stevens. With one hand he still
clung to the wheel, but the other pointed off over the waters.
Seamen are familiar with those inexplicable “pockets” in a fog, and this
one was as clear a “lift” as I’ve ever witnessed. Furthermore, it came
in an exact line with a decided object; an object on shore; though one
would never have guessed we were so near the “hard.”
Over there, as though viewed through a gray tunnel, but clear as
daylight itself, showed a bluff, surmounted by a lighthouse.
“Montauk!” I cried.
But before the fog banks once more swept the rift out of existence, my
exclamation was answered vehemently. Stroth’s imprecation came low, but
it carried venom enough to make up for much volume.
Then we continued monotonously on our westward course through the mist.