Now it was close ahead. He stopped rowing, puzzled. A blast of cold air smote them. Suddenly there was a rushing all around. It was not the surf at all, but waves, breaking before the coming wind. They were lost in the fog!
Percy faced Filippo blankly. For a moment his head went round. With bitter regret he now realized that in dropping the buoy he had given up a certainty for an uncertainty that might cost them dearly. But nothing was to be gained by yielding to discouragement. He reviewed his scanty stock of sea lore.
"That wind is probably blowing from some point between northeast and southeast. If we turn around, and run straight before it, we'll be likely to hit the island."
He swung the pea-pod stern to the breeze.
"Here goes! Watch out sharp for lobster-buoys, Filippo!"
But no buoys appeared. They might pass within ten feet of one and never see it. Five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed; and still no sign of Tarpaulin. The wind was becoming stronger, the waves higher; their rushing was now loud enough to drown the sound of any surf that might be breaking on the ledges of the island. Percy rowed for a quarter-hour longer, dread plucking at his heart-strings. At last he rested on his oars.
"We've missed it," he acknowledged, despondently.
They were lost now in good earnest. It was one o'clock. The fog hung over them like a heavy gray pall, so damp and thick that it was almost stifling. Percy turned the pea-pod bow to the wind and began rowing again.
"We must try to hold our own till it clears up," he observed, with attempted cheerfulness.
But his tones lacked conviction. It might not clear for two or three days. By degrees his strokes lost their force, until the oars were barely dipping. The boat was going astern fast.