“Dunno as thet would ha’ made any differ. We’re both scared out o’ ten years’ growth. Oh, Harve, did ye see his head?”
“Did I? I’ll never forget it. But look at here, Dan; it couldn’t have been meant . It was only the tide.”
“Tide! He come for it, Harve. Why, they sunk him six miles to south’ard o’ the Fleet, an’ we’re two miles from where she’s lyin’ now. They told me he was weighted with a fathom an’ a half o’ chain-cable.”
“Wonder what he did with the knife—up on the French coast?”
“Something bad. ’Guess he’s bound to take it with him to the Judgment, an’ so—What are you doin’ with the fish?”
“Heaving ’em overboard,” said Harvey.
“What for? We shan’t eat ’em.”
“I don’t care. I had to look at his face while I was takin’ the belt off. You can keep your catch if you like. I’ve no use for mine.”
Dan said nothing, but threw his fish over again.
“Guess it’s best to be on the safe side,” he murmured at last. “I’d give a month’s pay if this fog ’u’d lift. Things go abaout in a fog that ye don’t see in clear weather—yo-hoes an’ hollerers and suchlike. I’m sorter relieved he come the way he did instid o’ walkin’. He might ha’ walked.”
“Don’t, Dan! We’re right on top of him now. ’Wish I was safe aboard, hem’ pounded by Uncle Salters.”
“They’ll be lookin’ fer us in a little. Gimme the tooter.”
Dan took the tin dinner-horn, but paused before he blew.
“Go on,” said Harvey. “I don’t want to stay here all night.”