“I wonder how long fogs last here,” said Jim as once more they made their way up the ridge. “Perhaps if we just waited a while it would lift.”
“I don’t know,” replied the other, “but I heard Cap’n Pem say that sometimes the island’s foggy for weeks at a time.”
Once again they reached the Molly Moke rookery and at once proceeded to put Tom’s plan into practice. By shoving the birds out of their path and ruthlessly trampling on the eggs, the boys made their way across the valley in a fairly direct line; but as they gained the slope of the hill a sudden misgiving seized Jim.
“Say, Tom,” he exclaimed, “how do we know we’ve crossed in the right direction? Don’t you remember the hill went all around the valley—it was like a big bowl—and we may be on the opposite side from where we came down.”
“We can’t help that,” stated Tom. “When we get to the top we’ll mark the spot and walk to the right ’til we find the sheathbills’ cave and if we don’t find it, we’ll come back and try to the left.”
Toiling up the hillside, panting with the exertion and soaked to the skin by the clinging moisture, the two boys at last reached the summit.
“Perhaps they’d hear us in camp if we yelled,” suggested Jim.
But their cries seemed muffled in the fog and no answering call came to them, so, piling several stones in a little pyramid, the two turned to the right and carefully picked their way along the rocky ridge.
“We didn’t come over at this place, I know,” said Jim decisively as they came to a jagged, upstanding mass of rock.
“No,” admitted Tom. “but it may have been just a little to one side of the place where we did cross. Come along.”