The man in the pilot-house would not in the least understand a word of what the psychologist was talking about. The steamboat officer merely understands that he must be on his job! The _Montana_ added her voice to the bedlam of river yawp. The fog was so dense that even the lookout posted at her fore windlasses was a hazy figure as seen from the pilot-house. A squat ferryboat, which was headed across the river straight at the slip where her shore gong 'was hailing her, splashed under the steamer's bows, two tugs loafed nonchalantly across in the other direction--saucy sparrows of the river traffic, always underfoot and dodging out of danger by a breathless margin. Whistle-blasts piped or roared singly and in pairs, a duet of steam voices, or blended at times into a puzzling chorus. A steamer's whistle in the fog conveys little information except to announce that a steam-propelled craft is somewhere yonder in the white blank, unseen, under way. No craft is allowed to sound passing signals unless the vessel she is signaling is in plain sight. Captain Mayo could see nothing--even the surface of the water was almost indistinguishable. Ahead, behind, to right and left, everything that could toot was busy and vociferous. Here and there a duet of three staccato blasts indicated that neighbors were threatening to collide and were crawfishing to the best of their ability. Twice the big steamer stopped her engines and drifted until the squabble ahead of her seemed to have been settled. A halt mixes the notations of the log, but the mates of the steamer made the Battery signals, and after a time the spidery outlines of the first great bridge gave assurance that their allowances were correct. Providentially there was a shredding of the fog at Hell Gate, a shore-breeze flicking the mists off the surface of the water. Then was revealed the situation which lay behind the particularly emphatic and uproarious “one long and two short” blasts of a violent whistle. A Lehigh Valley tug was coming down the five-knot current with three light barges, which the drift had skeowowed until they were taking up the entire channel. With their cables, the tug and tow stretched for at least four thousand feet, almost a mile of dangerous drag. “Our good luck, sir,” vouchsafed the first mate. “She was howling so loud, blamed if I could tell whether she was coming or going. She's got no business coming down the Sound.” Captain Mayo, his teeth set hard, his rigid face dripping with moisture, as he stood in the open window, stopped the engines of his giant charge and jingled for full speed astern in order to halt her. He had no desire to battle for possession of the channel with what he saw ahead. At that moment Manager Fogg came into the pilothouse, disregarding the “No Admittance” sign by authority of his position. He lighted a cigar and displayed the contented air of a man who has fed fully.