“We may be late for supper,” complained Allan. “Do you see the fog?”
“Yes,” said Owen; “you could cut it with a knife. We can’t budge until it lifts.”
“And all the grub gone,” sighed McConnell.
“We haven’t even a horn,” said Allan. “It makes you feel helpless. If it shouldn’t clear by this afternoon, we should have to strike over to a West Shore railroad station and get around that way. I shouldn’t want to worry the folks; but I haven’t but half a dollar with me.”
“I haven’t a cent in these clothes,” said Owen, as they stood looking out into the fog.
“Nor I,” said McConnell.
They returned to the boat, and, to be prepared for sailing the moment the fog should lift, stowed everything on board, and drew in the stern line.
XVI.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
