Ebook The Brassbounder

To-day the weather, that has been fine since we left New York, has thickened. The brisk north wind that kept the sea-line clear died away to fitful airs during the night. Fog has dosed in on us and we go slowly, blindly, - tapping our way by soundings of the depths, - over the undersea ridges and gullies that lead on to Cape Race. Since an hour before daybreak we have seen nothing, heard nothing, of sea-neighbours or of the world beyond the limits of our bulwarks. The horizon, - blurred indefinite circle of a ship's length, - shows little sign of expanding to the hard blue division of sea and sky that is at present chiefly our desire. North Atlantic weather! Nine months winter and three months fog!

Monotonous in its persistence, the fog has yet a certain quality of variety. With the passing of a fine quiet night, came dense cloudy vapours that hung closely to the ship, shrouding the decks and upperworks in an impenetrable pall.