“Is that ours?” asked Ned quickly.
“Sounded so,” replied Jerry. “But it may be that another ship is near. Let’s go up and see.”
They hurried on deck to learn that it was their own fog signal whistle which had started sending out its hoarse warning. Steam had been generated in one of the donkey hoisting engine boilers, and, by means of a hastily rigged pipe line, conveyed to the big whistle.
On this there now sounded warning blasts which would tell to other craft in the vicinity the nearness of a ship. And, as the three chums listened, they heard the blasts given in peculiar order—as though spelling out some code word.
“Is that saying anything?” asked Ned of a sailor who loomed up through the mist.
“Yes, that tells whoever hears it that we’re drifting, out of control, and need help.”
“Will help come?”
“Nobody knows,” was the answer. “I don’t believe any other ship would take a chance on coming too close while the fog holds.”
And the fog still held. Like a white blanket it wrapped the transport in its folds, hiding from view everything except in a fifty-foot circle.