Sluggishly the deeply-laden barge gathered way. She had a freeboard of barely ten inches--a fact that portended wet decks before long. Having satisfied himself that No. 6 was following, McIntosh devoted his attention to shaping a course out of harbour, undergoing a dozen mental thrills as his unwieldy packet scraped past buoys and showed a decided tendency to commit suicide across the steel stems of a couple of anchored cruisers. Once clear of the harbour, the Sub called to a seaman. "Take her," he ordered, handing over the wheel. "Keep her as she is: south a half west." "South a half west it is, sir," replied the man in the time-honoured formula of the sea. Free to devote his attention to other things, McIntosh secured the storm-flap of his oilskin coat and, leaving the shelter of the wheel-house, looked towards the following boat. No. 6 was coming along well. The "bone in her teeth" glistened white as she pushed her snub nose through the waves. Both craft were "taking it green" as the water flowed over the tarpaulined hatches and surged along the broad waterways. "We'll carry our tide for another hour," he said to himself. "Then it'll be a slow job. One thing, we can't have every blessed thing in life, but I hope to goodness nothing goes wrong." He glanced ahead. In an incredibly short space of time, the bold outlines of Dunkennet Head had vanished. Dead to windward haze, possibly fog, was bearing down. It was something that McIntosh had not bargained for. The glass had shown indications of fine weather, but unfortunately it was not capable of indicating the approach of mist. "Hazy ahead," he remarked to the petty officer. "Yes, sir," was the reply. "Will you be altering course a point or so, sir? There's a nasty set of the tide inshore about these parts." "Yes," decided the Sub, and gave the necessary instructions to the helmsman. "Get a nun-buoy ready to veer astern," he continued, "and signal to No. 6 to keep the thing dose under her bows. If she doesn't, we'll be losing each other." While the men were making these preparations the hideous clamour of No. 6's foghorn attracted their attention. The lighters had increased their distance to nearly a quarter of a mile, and No. 6 was still dropping astern. "Ask 'em what's wrong," ordered McIntosh. A signalman, steadying himself with feet planted widely apart on the plunging deck, semaphored the message. From No. 6 two red and yellow hand-flags replied. McIntosh, unable to follow the swift movements of the flags, was obliged to await the signalman's report: "Says, sir, she's overheated her bearings. She'll have to stop or her engines'll seize up." It was exactly what the Sub was anticipating, and now trouble had come he met it promptly and resolutely. "Tell them to stand by and receive a hawser," he ordered, at the same time ringing down for "Slow." "Look alive, there, with that six-inch rope."