Mr. Gibney stuck his ingenious head out of the pilot house and
listened, but no answering echo reached his ears. "Hear
anything?" he bawled.
"Heard the _Maggie's_ siren," Captain Scraggs retorted
venomously.
Mr. Gibney leaped out on deck, selected a small head of cabbage
from a broken crate and hurled it forward. Then he sprang back
into the pilot house and straightened the _Maggie_ on her course
again. He leaned over the binnacle, with the cuff of his watch
coat wiping away the moisture on the glass, and studied the
instrument carefully. "I don't trust the danged thing," he
muttered. "Guess I'll haul her off a coupler points an' try the
whistle again."
He did. Still no echo. He was inclined to believe that Captain
Scraggs had not read the taffrail log correctly, and when at
eight-thirty he tried the whistle again he was still without
results in the way of an echo from the cliff, albeit the engine
room howler brought him several of a profuse character from the
perspiring McGuffey.
"We've passed Pedro," Mr. Gibney decided. He ground his cud and
muttered ugly things to himself, for his dead reckoning had gone
astray and he was worried.
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