“You have been making a pretty slow drag of it, haven't you, Captain Mayo? I've had time to eat dinner--and I'm quite a feeder at that! And we haven't made the Gate yet!” “We couldn't do a stroke better and be safe,” said the captain over his shoulder, his eyes on the tow. “What's the matter now?” “A tug and three barges in the way.” “Do you mean to say you're holding up a Vose liner with eight hundred passengers, waiting for a tugboat? Look here, Mayo, we've got to hustle folks to where they want to go, and get them there in time.” “That tow is coming down with the current and has the right of way, sir. And there's no chance of passing, for she's sweeping the channel.” “I don't believe there's any law that makes a passenger-boat hold up for scows,” grumbled Fogg. “If there is one, a good man knows how to get around it and keep up his schedule.” He paced the pilot-house at the extreme rear, puffing his cigar. He grunted when Mayo gave the go-ahead bells and the throb of the engines began. “Now ram her along, boy. People in these days don't want to waste time on the road. They're even speeding up the automobile hearses.” Captain Mayo did not reply. He was grateful that the dangers of Hell Gate had been revealed. The mists hung in wisps against North Brother Island when he swung into the channel of the Gate, and he could see, far ahead, the shaft of the lighthouse. It was a stretch where close figuring was needed, and this freak of the mists had given him a fine chance. He jingled for full speed and took a peep to note the bearing of Sunken Meadow spindle. “Nothe-east, five-eighths east!” he directed the quartermaster at the wheel. The man repeated the command mechanically and brought her to her course for the Middle Ground passage. After they had rounded North Brother, Whitestone Point tower was revealed. It really seemed as if the fog were clearing, and even in the channel between Execution Rocks and Sands Point his hopes were rising. But in the wider waters off Race Rock the _Montana_ drove her black snout once more into the white pall, and her whistle began to bray again. The young captain sighed. “East, a half nothe!” “East, a half nothe, it is, sir!” At least, he had conquered East River, the Gate, and the narrows beyond, and had many miles straight ahead to the whistler off Point Judith. He was resolved to be thankful for small favors. He hoped that with the coming of the night and on account of the prevalence of the fog he would find that shipping of the ordinary sort had stopped moving. However, in a few minutes he heard telltale whistles ahead, and he signaled half speed. A lumbering old lighter with a yawing derrick passed close aboard. An auxiliary fisherman, his exhaust snapping like a machine-gun, and seeming to depend on that noise for warning, was overtaken. “Can you leave that window for a minute, Captain Mayo?” asked the general manager.