"That would have carried us into the open gulf," returned Robert.
"And that is exactly where I think we are," Harold affirmed.
"But there are no islands in the gulf," argued Robert, "nor land either, after you leave Tampa, until you reach Mexico. And we are surely not in Mexico."
"I do not know where we are," said his cousin. "I only know that we left home with our faces to the west, and that the water kept boiling under our bow for ten long hours. How fast we went, or what land we have reached, I know no more than Frank does."
"But we saw islands and points of land to our left," Robert insisted; "it is impossible for us to be in the gulf."
"Then where do you suppose we are!"
"On the coast of Florida, to the south of Tampa. There is no other place within reach, answering the description."
"But how do you know we are not on some island?"
"We may be on an island; but if so, it is still on the Florida coast," Robert replied, "for there are no islands beside these, nearer than the West Indies, and we are surely not on any of them."
Harold shook his head. "I cannot answer your reasoning, for you are a better scholar than I. We may be where you suppose; and I confess that without your superior knowledge of geography I should never have conceived it; but still my impression is, that neither of us know well enough where we are to warrant our going far from land. A voyage in an open boat upon a rough sea is no trifle. I am afraid of it. Put me on land, and I will promise to do as much as any other boy of my age; but put me on sea, out of sight of land, and I am a coward, because I know neither where I am, nor what to do."