CHAPTER XXI 



THE Pentland Firth is not a friendly piece of water ; 

 nay, at times, it is positively and aggressively objec- 

 tionable, especially to those whose fate it is to suffer the 

 pangs of mal de mer. Luckily for myself, I am not one of 

 those unfortunates, though when the stormy sea doth rage 

 and I am on its palpitating bosom I am apt to feel anything 

 but boisterously hilarious. In fact, at all times I hate and 

 abhor the rough stuff served up by Father Neptune. There is 

 only one phase during a sea voyage which " gets my goat " 

 more thoroughly, and that is a glassy surface, swept by a 

 dense fog. This from painful experience ; for it was my fate 

 to be a passenger on board the old Leinster when, under such 

 conditions, she barged into the lightship Albatross hard by 

 the coast of Ireland catching her amidships and sending her 

 to Davy Jones's locker inside of seven minutes. The fog 

 was so dense that one could hardly see one's hand in front 

 of one's nose. I had been reclining in my comfortable bunk, 

 reading the latest " seller " of Rider Haggard, and uncon- 

 cernedly listening to the constant hooting of the siren, when 

 suddenly I was conscious of a shock (by no means a severe 

 one), followed by a strange grinding and creaking. Then came 

 the tinkling of the engine-room bell ; at first " Half speed," 

 then " Full speed astern ! " 



There followed the trampling of many feet on deck. Ex- 

 cursions and alarums and excited shoutings and objurgations 

 assaulted my ears ; so I came to the conclusion that it was 

 time I got a move on, for the purpose of personally investi- 

 gating the reason of this to-do. 



When I had ascended the companion-way, a strange sight 

 presented itself ; the exact meaning of which was obscured 

 by the fog. 



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