"I really don't know yet whether I am awake or dreaming!" said Bart. "This about knocks everything I have ever seen!"
"Just fishermen," said Inza. "They would have picked you up, no doubt, if they had seen you—they couldn't hear you; or if I had been able to make them see you. It must have been an hour or more after that when I found that they had writing-material in the little desk over there, and I wrote them a note. But the fog was so thick then that it was no use for them to make a search."
"Why didn't they run back to New York with you?"
"Simply because they thought they had done their duty by me, and that it would pay them better to come out to the fishing-grounds and take me in on their return. I promised them money, but——"
She laughingly held up a little purse.
"I had just ten cents in that, and you see I couldn't convince them of the fabulous wealth of my father and my friends by exhibiting that. They said they would take me when they went in, and I could not get anything else out of them."
"Perhaps a little money—as much or more than they can make out of this fishing-trip—will induce them to take us right in. That is, as soon as the wind rises. We're not only anchored, but we're becalmed now."
Frank was thinking of Elsie and of the others who had been on the Merry Seas. His heart was aching with anxiety. Bart and Inza were scarcely less distressed.
The cabin or "cuddy," which had been surrendered to them by the fishermen who were now outside, was a diminutive place, smelling unpleasantly of fish and burnt grease. On two sides were bunks. Near the center was the rusty stove about which the three friends were gathered. Its heat caused their wet clothing to emit a cloud of steam. At one side was the writing-desk, fashioned by clumsy hands, and scattered about was a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends, consisting of sea-boots and oilskin coats, nets, and fishing-tackle.
"Not a ladies' parlor," Inza admitted, glancing about "But I tell you I was glad to get into it."