Explore "Thrice Armed" by Harold Bindloss on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was summer in the north, and now that the bitter wind which had blown thick rain before it had dropped, the clammy fog shut the _Shasta_ in like a wall. She crept through it with engines pounding steadily, swinging to the slow heave of the swell, while Jimmy stood, chilled to the backbone, on his bridge, as he had done for most of the last forty-eight hours. A chart in a glass case was clamped to the rail in front of him, and Lindstrom, the mate, stooped over it with the moisture trickling from his oilskins.
"This thing is not much good," he said. "The stream moves a different way with the change of wind. Also there is discrepancy in the depth of water."