“That is a good yarn!” cried Tom as Unavik ended. “And say, hurrah, the fog’s lifting!”
Unavik grinned. “Man, he hear plenty drum. You no hear? Me say he please an’ wave um skin.”
“Gee, I do hear drums!” declared Tom. “From over to the west.”
“Sure Mike!” exclaimed Unavik. “Me say all same. Fog go.”
Tom laughed. “Do you believe that yarn, Unavik?” he asked.
The Eskimo stared at Tom with a puzzled expression. “Sure,” he declared, “me see hill, me see river, me see fog. All time fog come Eskimo make-um plenty dance, plenty drum, fog go, all same now.”
As if further argument was useless in the face of such evidence, Unavik waddled off towards the bows.
Presently the water was rippling against the vessel’s sides. The fog had thinned until the entire schooner was visible from where the boys stood. In wisps and shreds the vapor was scudding by, while out of the west came a strong, cold wind.
As the last of the fog swept by, there was a hoarse frightened bellow from forward. Quick sharp orders were roared out and the boys, racing to the lee side of the schooner, fairly gasped. Almost under the bows was a jagged reef of sharp black rocks! For a brief instant the boys stood petrified. The schooner seemed doomed. Before her sails could be trimmed, before she would have steerageway upon her she would be on the rocks. Each second she was drifting, slipping nearer to the reef. The boys listened with bated breath, expecting to hear the rending crash, the awful jar that would mean the Narwhal’s end.