"Stand off or ye'll run us down, ye lubbers! Keep away!"
From the mist came a shrill thin yell of surprise, followed by an excited jabbering of many tongues. Clearly the visitors were of foreign origin. Then a shrill voice lifted in English amid sudden silence as the thrumming motor ceased its noise.
"'Ello! Oo are you?"
"Very good, Bo's'n Joe," said the skipper calmly. "She'll be in the centre of the fairway, most likely—about two points abaft our beam."
Ericksen lifted to his shoulder the shotgun with which he had armed himself, and two smashing reports blasted into the fog as he fired both barrels. A shrill clamour of voices made answer, followed by instantaneous and blanket-like silence. Then came a single sullen plunge, as of some heavy object striking the water.
"Ah!" remarked Pontifex, staring into into the fog as though he could see through it. "Very good, Bo's'n—you reached 'em. They've anchored, and they'll lie doggo until the fog lifts. They know we'll waste no bullets if we can't see them."
"Reached them?" repeated Dennis. "You don't mean that Ericksen tried to hit them?"
Bo's'n Joe guffawed, and Pontifex gave Dennis a peculiar smiling look—a very diabolical look.
"My dear Mr. Dennis, that's exactly what he did. And some yellow beggar caught the pellets in his hide—in other words, got the hint! They'll try no games until they can see what they're up against."
"But where are they?" demanded Dennis, giving up any expostulation.