“Which way were we pulling, my men?”
“About due west, sir.”
“But the boat’s head lies south, and we have been going right away from the steamer. Here, pull hard starboard, backwater port!” he cried; and as the oars dipped he bent down and watched the compass till he found the boat’s head pointing north-east, when he shouted, “All together: give way!”
It was a relief to feel that something was being done to extricate them from their awkward predicament, and the men pulled hard for the next ten minutes or so, when, at a word from Captain Marsham, they easied, and a fresh howl was sent forth to penetrate the fog. But this had no better result than the last, and once more the order was given to pull and obeyed with fresh vigour, when Steve suddenly leaped up.
“I heard it then,” he said.
“Hold hard!” cried Captain Marsham, and the oars hung dripping over the side. “Heard what, my lad?”
“The steamer’s whistle, quite plainly.”
There was a dead silence at this as all listened, but not a sound reached them but the drip, drip, drip of the water from the blades of the oars.
“Mistaken, I’m afraid, Steve, my lad,” said the captain. “Any one of you hear the whistle?”
There was no reply.