so ALONGSHORE 



west that ought to get us out o' this yer bay, 

 past Beer Head all right. If us urns [runs] on 

 they rocks there, wi' this weight o' nets in the 

 boat, us won't get off in a hurry. Be I steering 

 west now?' 



Beer Head being white — the southernmost 

 chalk in England — it shows up so little on the 

 clearest of nights that we didn't expect to see it in 

 the fog. My compass, moreover, had in it a tiny 

 ball of dirt which jammed the needle, and needed 

 jerking out of the way every time a bearing was 

 taken. While the 01' Man stood shivering at the 

 tiller I sat against the mizzen halyard, on which the 

 lamp was made fast, and jerking, peering into, the 

 compass, called out the course every minute or so. 



'You'm just west of south.' 



'Eh?' 



'You'm just west of south 1 — You'm north of 

 west.' 



'Eh?' 



'You'm north of westl — You'm going sou'sou'- 

 east.' 



'Eh?' 



'Casn' thee hear? Thee't going sou'sou'easti 

 — East 'tis now, due east!' 



'Eh?' 



