Robarts hurled back a sugar-plum or two of the same and then ordered Bayliss to clap on all sail, and keep a mid-channel course through the night.
At four bells in the middle watch, Sharpe, in charge of the ship, tapped at Robarts' door. “Blowing hard, sir, and the weather getting thickish.”
“Then call me if it blows any harder,” grunted Robarts.
In two hours more, tap, tap, came Bayliss, in charge. “If we don't take sail in, they'll take themselves out.”
“Furl to-gallen'sels, and call me if it gets any worse.”
In another hour Bayliss was at him again. “Blowing a gale, sir, and a Channel fog on.”
“Reef taupsles, and call me if it gets any worse.”
At daybreak Dodd was on deck, and found the ship flying through a fog so thick that her forecastle was quite invisible from the poop, and even her foremast loomed indistinct and looked distant. “You'll be foul of something or other, Sharpe,” said he.
“What is that to you?” inquired a loud rough voice behind him. “I don't allow passengers to handle my ship.”
“Then do pray handle her yourself; captain! Is this weather to go tearing happy-go-lucky up the Channel?”
“I mean to sail her without your advice, sir; and, being a seaman, I shall get all I can out of a fair wind.”
“That is right Captain Robarts, if you had but the British Channel all to yourself.”
“Perhaps you will leave me my deck all to myself.”
“I should be delighted: but my anxiety will not let me.” With this Dodd retired a few steps, and kept a keen look-out.
At noon a lusty voice cried “Land on the weather beam!”
All eyes were turned that way and saw nothing.
Land in sight was reported to Captain Robarts.
Now that worthy was in reality getting secretly anxious: so he ran on deck crying, “Who saw it?”
Dodd came forward, and, with a respectful air, told him that, being on the look-out, he had seen the coast of the Isle of Wight in a momentary lift of the haze.
“Isle of Fiddlestick!” was the polite reply; “Isle of Wight is eighty miles astern by now.”
Dodd answered firmly that he was well acquainted with every outline in the Channel, and that the land he had seen was St. Katherine's Point
Robarts deigned no reply, but had the log heaved: it showed the vessel to be running twelve knots an hour. He then went to his cabin and consulted his chart; and, having worked his problem, came hastily on deck, and went from rashness to wonderful caution. “Turn the hands out, and heave the ship to!”