CHAPTER VIII.
"'Tis strange--but true; for truth is always strange-- Stranger than fiction."-- BYRON.
"Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows."-- GRAY.
The least agreeable part of our voyage came near the end.

It was when we were in the fogs off the coast of Newfoundland.

The work that tired one to death was not sufficient to keep one warm; the cold mist seemed to soak through one's flesh as well as one's slops, and to cling to one's bones as it clung to the ship's gear.

The deck was slippery and cold, everything, except the funnel, was sticky and cold, and the fog-horn made day and night hideous with noises like some unmusical giant trying in vain to hit the note Fa.

The density of the fog varied.