And with that they had to be content.
XIII
FOG-BOUND
Dog-Days began about the 20th of July. Before that the dwellers in Camp Spurling had experienced occasional spells of fog, but nothing very dense or long-continued. Now they got a taste of the real thing. They were dressing fish on the Barracouta one afternoon when a cold wind struck from the southeast.
Spurling held up his hand.
"We're in for it!" said he. "Feel that? Right off the Banks! In less than an hour we'll need a compass to get ashore in the dory."
He was so nearly right that there was no fun in it. The wind hauled more to the east, and in its wake came driving a gray, impenetrable wall. The ocean vanished. The points on each side of the cove were swallowed up. Quickly disappeared the cove itself, the beach, the camp and fish-house, and the bank beyond them. The sloop was blanketed close in heavy mist.
Jim made a pretense of scooping a handful out of the air and shaping it like a snowball.