Then Ken went
forward, to find his father, wearing a rough black oilskin, combining the
duties of look-out and skipper. At the wheel was a young Englishman named
Morgan, an amateur yachtsman who knew the Straits like the palm of his
hand.
'Where are we now, dad?' asked Ken.
'Opposite Bulair.'
'What--in the Straits?'
'At their mouth, Ken.'
'We haven't wasted much time, then.'
'Indeed we haven't. But I am afraid we shall have to slow a bit now. The
fog is thicker than ever, there are no lights, and we don't want to come
to an ignominious end by piling ourselves up on the cliffs.
'Still the fog's our best friend,' he continued, 'and we have plenty of
time before us. If we average no more than half-speed we should be clear
before daylight.'
For another twenty minutes they carried on at full speed through the
choking smother, then Captain Carrington rang to reduce speed.
'We're off Gallipoli now,' he said. 'That's where I should have been by
this time, Ken, if G 2 had not popped up just at the proper moment.
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