"But we are not in a harbor."
"No. We are somewhere near the Whitehead Islands, near the mouth of Penobscot Bay."
"Well, let's keep on as long as there is a breath of wind. I don't fancy anchoring here. We might be run down in the night."
"And, if we keep on, the chances are two to one that we'll run onto a reef or pile up on an island. I had much rather take the chances of anchoring here and being run down. The wind is dying out, and this fog is shutting down thicker and thicker."
"Well," said Jack, in a dissatisfied way, "this is your boat and you are in command. You can do as you like."
"I'll do as the majority believes best."
"Then anchor," grunted Browning. "I don't fancy this prowling about in the fog."
Hodge was in favor of anchoring, and Hans agreed with them, so Jack was the only one who felt like going on. He gave up in disgust.
While they were talking the last faint breeze had fallen swiftly, and, by the time it was definitely decided, the
White Wings lay becalmed, rolling helplessly on the swells that came in from the open sea.