"Your certificate will be safe, provided you don't bungle. And there's a cool three thousand pounds, although I presume some of that will have to be shared out. That's your affair. I don't want to know anything about that. If you fail you're sacked--understand that. And if you open your mouth, my man, remember what I threatened just now. But it's no use beating about the bush--do it." "Very good, sir," agreed Captain Quelch. "That's much better, Captain!" exclaimed Mr. Fiandersole cordially. "In deep water, mind--and no loss of life." * * * * * * * * Twenty-four hours later Captain Josiah Quelch, having dropped the pilot off the Forelands, was well on his way down Channel. He was far from being in a happy state of mind. For one thing, the s.s. _Getalong_ was in a thick fog. For another, the old tramp was in a decidedly unseaworthy condition. It was a mystery how the Board of Trade ever passed her on the last survey, or how the underwriters had been persuaded to insure her for sixty thousand pounds. But what weighed most heavily upon the captain's mind was the knowledge that by some means or other the _Getalong_ must not reach port again. "What's the matter with the Old Man, Bill?" inquired the quartermaster, as for the tenth time in half an hour Captain Quelch walked to the weather-side of the bridge and leant over the rails. "Wot 'e expects to see alongside licks me." A long-drawn wail from the distant shore was borne faintly to the ears of the men on the bridge. "That's Oldbury Head, Mr. Stevens," remarked Captain Quelch, addressing the second officer. "Ease her off a point. We can't run risks in a fog like this." "Ay, ay, sir," replied the second officer, although he could not account for his superior's excess of caution. Already on the course set, the _Getalong_ would be well clear of all headlands until abreast of St. Catherine's. With her syren going at frequent intervals, the old tramp wallowed through the mirk of grey, oily sea and grey, clammy fog. Once or twice a foghorn was heard bleating feebly, but not sufficiently near to be considered dangerous. Again the skipper approached the charthouse, peered at the clock and shuffled to the weather-side of the bridge. Suddenly the old tramp quivered and appeared to come to a dead stop. Then with an equally abrupt jerk she forged ahead again. "What's that, Mr. Stevens?" shouted the captain. "Don't say we've run something down?" "Fo'c'sle there!" hailed the second officer. "Anything under our bows?" "Nothing, sir," came a husky voice from the invisible fo'c'sle. "Bit of wreckage, perhaps, sir," suggested Stevens. "Hope she hasn't started a plate--they're none too sound." "Tell the carpenter to try the well," ordered Captain Quelch. "No--better go yourself, Mr. Stevens. Look alive." The second officer descended the bridge ladder and went below. In a couple of minutes he was back again. "She's sprung a leak, sir," he reported breathlessly. "It's pouring in like a sluice."