"
"What's our level?" I ask.
"Four thousand. Aren't you coming up on the bridge?"
The bridge (let us ever praise the G.P.O. as a repository of
ancientest tradition!) is represented by a view of Captain
Hodgson's legs where he stands on the Control Platform that runs
thwart-ships overhead. The bow colloid is unshuttered and Captain
Purnall, one hand on the wheel, is feeling for a fair slant. The
dial shows 4300 feet. "It's steep to-night," he mutters, as tier
on tier of cloud drops under. "We generally pick up an easterly
draught below three thousand at this time o' the year. I hate
slathering through fluff."
"So does Van Cutsem. Look at him huntin' for a slant!" says
Captain Hodgson. A foglight breaks cloud a hundred fathoms below.
The Antwerp Night Mail makes her signal and rises between two
racing clouds far to port, her flanks blood-red in the glare of
Sheerness Double Light. The gale will have us over the North Sea
in half-an-hour, but Captain Purnall lets her go
composedly--nosing to every point of the compass as she rises.
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