“Liker twenty-nine, an’ niver no whistle.” “Yes, we always do that. Do you want a tow to Brixham?” said Moorshed. A great silence fell upon those wet men of the sea. We lifted a little toward their side, but our silent, quick-breathing crew, braced and strained outboard, bore us off as though we had been a mere picket-boat. “What for?” said a puzzled voice. “For love; for nothing. You’ll be abed in Brixham by midnight.” “Yiss; but trawl’s down.” “No hurry. I’ll pass you a line and go ahead. Sing out when you’re ready.” A rope smacked on their deck with the word; they made it fast; we slid forward, and in ten seconds saw nothing save a few feet of the wire rope running into fog over our stern; but we heard the noise of debate. “Catch a Brixham trawler letting go of a free tow in a fog,” said Moorshed listening. “But what in the world do you want him for?” I asked. “Oh, he’ll came in handy later.” “Was that your first collision?” “Yes.” I shook hands with him in silence, and our tow hailed us. “Aie! yeou little man-o’-war!” The voice rose muffled and wailing. “After us’ve upped trawl, us’ll be glad of a tow. Leave line just slack abaout as ’tis now, and kip a good fine look-out be’ind ’ee.” “There’s an accommodatin’ blighter for you!” said Pyecroft. “Where does he expect we’ll be, with these currents evolutin’ like sailormen at the Agricultural Hall?” I left the bridge to watch the wire-rope at the stern as it drew out and smacked down upon the water. By what instinct or guidance 267 kept it from fouling her languidly flapping propeller, I cannot tell. The fog now thickened and thinned in streaks that bothered the eyes like the glare of intermittent flash-lamps; by turns granting us the vision of a sick sun that leered and fled, or burying all a thousand fathom deep in gulfs of vapours. At no time could we see the trawler though we heard the click of her windlass, the jar of her trawl-beam, and the very flap of the fish on her deck. Forward was Pyecroft with the lead; on the bridge Moorshed pawed a Channel chart; aft sat I, listening to the whole of the British Mercantile Marine (never a keel less) returning to England, and watching the fog-dew run round the bight of the tow back to its mother-fog. “Aie! yeou little man-o’-war! We’m done with trawl. You can take us home if you know the road.” “Right O!” said Moorshed. “We’ll give the fishmonger a run for his money. Whack her up, Mr. Hinchcliffe.”