[CHAPTER XV]
THE CRASH
With moisture fairly dripping from their garments, hanging in beads from their eyebrows, and seeming to penetrate to their innermost being, as water does a sponge, Ned, Bob and Jerry stood at the rail of the transport moodily discussing the situation.
Yes, they were moody. It was, indeed, enough to make any one moody, though perhaps they should have been thankful that their lives were spared and that they were able to be up on deck, and not obliged to lie stretched on a cot in the sick bay. But the boys thought they had just cause for grievance, and perhaps they had.
Certainly to be disabled far out at sea was bad enough, without having to be fog-bound, to run the risk of crashing into some other vessel, having some big steamer, or perhaps a war craft, crash into them, or bear down on an immense iceberg which might be the cause of the very fog that would hasten their destruction.
And so, gloomily and moodily, the three Cresville lads leaned against the rail, straining their eyes to pierce the misty whiteness that enveloped them so closely. Every now and then the hoarse bellow of the steamer’s whistle would sound out its warning and call—for the blasts were so sounded as to form the international call for help. And, punctuating the whistle blasts, was the clang of the fog bell, rung insistently by sailors detailed for this important task.
Meanwhile all that could be done was to watch and wait—wait for the inevitable. Would the fog lift before some fatal crash? or would they be further endangered by its opaqueness? No one could answer.
Lookouts were stationed at every vantage point. Men were sent up to the crow’s nests on the masts, but from there they reported that they could see no more than could be observed from the deck. Their eyes were useless beyond a distance of fifty feet.