By this time, the night was resonant with sound. From three sides came the bellowing of foghorns, as the rescuing vessels felt their way through the fog mist. The sounds could not by any stretch of imagination be called melodious, but to the wave-tossed people in the little boats they were sweeter than any music they had ever heard.
“Talk about concert programs!” exclaimed Bob. “That beats them all!”
“The Metropolitan Opera Company never had anything on them,” returned Jimmy, grinning.
The small boats had been provided with flares before they were launched, and one was kept burning all the time at the bow of each boat. But they were so close to the surface of the water that their illuminating power was feeble and limited to a very narrow zone.
“If only this fog would lift!” muttered Herb.
“Let’s be thankful the sea doesn’t lift,” said Joe. “What chance would we have if a storm sprang up?”
“There goes a rocket!” cried Bob, as a blinding flash of light clove the darkness. “And it came from some ship close at hand. There’s the ship now,” he fairly shouted, as a vague mass loomed up, not a hundred feet away.
They all joined in a loud shout that was evidently heard on the vessel, which was just creeping along, and they heard a command given that brought the purring engines to a sudden stop.
At the same moment, the glare of a searchlight was turned on the boat, and for a moment it almost blinded them.
“Ahoy there in the boat!” came a voice through a trumpet. “We see you. Row up to the stern and we’ll take you on board.”