“Bother the fog!” said Murray fretfully. “It’s growing worse.”
“No, sir,” said the seaman who was close at hand. “Seems to me that it’s on the move, and afore long we shall be in the clear, sir, and see where we are.”
The man’s words proved to be correct sooner than could have been expected, for before many minutes had passed, and just when the mist which shut them in was at its worst, the solid-looking bank of cloud began to open, and passed away aft; the sun shot out torrid rays, and those on board the Seafowl were seeing the need there had been for care, for they were gazing across the clear sea at the wide-spreading mangrove-covered shore, which, monotonous and of a dingy green, stretched away to north and south as far as eye could reach.
“Where’s the schooner?” exclaimed Murray excitedly, for the Seafowl seemed to be alone upon the dazzling waters.
“In the fog behind us,” said Roberts, in a disappointed tone. “We’ve overdone it. I expected we should; the skipper was in such a jolly hurry.”
Frank Murray took his companion’s words as being the correct explanation of the state of affairs; but they soon proved to be wrong, for the soft breeze that had sprung up from the shore rapidly swept the fog away seaward, and though all on board the sloop watched eagerly for the moment when the smart schooner should emerge, it at last became plain that she had eluded them—how, no one on board could say.
“It’s plain enough that she can’t have gone seaward,” said Roberts thoughtfully. “She must have sailed right away to the east.”
“Yes,” said Murray thoughtfully.
“Of course! Right over the tops of the mangroves,” said Roberts mockingly. “They hang very close, and there’s a heavy dew lying upon them, I’ll be bound.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Murray. “She couldn’t have passed in through some opening, I suppose?”