"I almost wish we'd sunk him, the little rip! They're the cause of more trouble.

And what good are they?
Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell to breakfast, blowin' his whistle to beat the band and tellin' the rest of the world to look out for him, because he's comin' and can't look out for himself! Because he's comin'! And you've got to look out, too! Right of way! Common decency! They don't know the meanin' of it!" I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while he stumped indignantly up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog.
And romantic it certainly was--the fog, like the grey shadow of infinite mystery, brooding over the whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motes of light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding their steeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery, groping their way blindly through the Unseen, and clamouring and clanging in confident speech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.
The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with a laugh.

I too had been groping and floundering, the while I thought I rode clear-eyed through the mystery.
"Hello! somebody comin' our way," he was saying.

"And d'ye hear that?
He's comin' fast.

Walking right along.