![]() ![]() It was a quarter past seven of a cold November evening, the heat on, the light switching it's tail in two hundred directions, the Fog Horn bumbling in the high throat of the tower. ![]() "On the mysteries of the sea." McDunn lit his pipe. ![]() "What do you think McDunn, when I leave you out here alone?" "Well, it's your turn on land tomorrow," he said, smiling, "to dance the ladies and drink gin." "It's a lonely life, but you're used to it now, aren't you?" asked McDunn. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and foam. Feeling like two birds in the grey sky, McDunn and I sent the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely ships. ![]() OUT there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light up in the stone tower. ![]()
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