Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. Not many years ago, two men, employed on this duty, quarrelled during the night, and in the morning their bodies were found stretched upon the pavement of the yard beneath. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper.
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