Or
else fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that
close shave we had of being run down at night, I told you of, my first
voyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog
thick enough to slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives on
board. I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous thing looming
up alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both on deck) calling out,
"Good God! What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to save
themselves. There's no dynamite on board now. I am going to get the
wife! . . " I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!"
Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a Belgian Green Star
liner, the _Westland_," he went on, "commanded by one of those stop-for-
nothing skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without
absolution. She cut half through the old _Ferndale_ and after the blow
there was a silence like death. Next I heard the captain back on deck
shouting, "Set your engines slow ahead," and a howl of "Yes, yes,"
answering him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd of people up
there began making a row in the fog.
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