"Ah!" ejaculated the skipper, "you are likely enough to be right.  But he shall never get there, even if I have to drive the frigate under water to stop him.  Hang it!  I wish the weather would clear, if only for a moment, and allow us to get a sight of him.  Thank you, Mr Trimble; that will do."  And he released his hold upon the chart, allowing the corner he had been holding to spring back and curl up.  I did the same, and, as the ship took a somewhat heavier roll than usual, glanced out over the bulwarks at the racing, foam-capped surges that reared themselves alongside; and at that moment, as if in direct response to the skipper's forcibly expressed wish, the haze thinned away somewhat to starboard, revealing, square abeam, and apparently about a mile away, a dim, misty, grey shape faintly showing up through the thickness to starboard.