It was not until he had left the two dangers behind him that Allan began to think of the plight he was in. Then he laughed, and McConnell joined him.
“Don’t you want to sit for your picture?” asked McConnell.
“No, thank you. I don’t think I want to see myself in a striped suit, even for fun. I must get you to hunt up some one who will send word to Hazenfield, even if I can’t go myself.”
The wind drew a little stronger, and Allan began to think that the fog was lifting. It had grown sufficiently thin to justify him in running straight for shore.
“Go to the bow,” Allan said to McConnell, “and yell when you see anything.”
They both watched eagerly for the shore, but it was nearly ten minutes later that McConnell shouted, “A dock!”
They would have crashed into it in a few moments. Allan swung the Arabella and ran the boat up under the lee of the dock.
It was a small private dock adjoining a boat-house. Making fast to one of the rings, the boys climbed out.
“Allan looked down at his clothes.”