“It’ll be a pity to bother him until the time comes when he throbs with worry,” thought Captain Tom Halstead, sympathetically. “But if that low-hanging haze doesn’t spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e, then I’ve been raised among a different breed of sea fogs!”
The crashing of sparks over the spark-gap had ceased for the present, and Joe, reporting that there was no wireless craft within reach of his limited aerials, was on deck once more, waiting until the time should come around for another trial.
Hank had gone below to start the motors, connecting them with the dynamo, to renew the supply of electrical “juice” in the storage batteries, which was running low, as proved by the last message sent.
The chug-chug of the twin motors was heard over on the seventy-footer, and soon an unknown man, his cap pulled well down over his 167 eyes, appeared at the stern of the Drab. He took a long, keen look at the “Restless.”
“He’s wondering if we’re going to hoist the mud-hook,” smiled Tom.
“And hoping that we are,” grinned Joe. “Oh, but we must be an eyesore to those wistful scoundrels!”
Powell Seaton now spent most of his time gazing at the line of haze, which, by degrees, was growing bigger and coming nearer.
“Captain Halstead,” he faltered, “I’m beginning to feel certain that you’re a prophet.”
“Or a Jonah?” laughed Tom, though it was not a very cheerful sort of laugh.
“No, no, no!” cried the charter-man, earnestly. “Never that! The little luck that I’ve had in these trying days has all come through you youngsters. Without you I’d have been flat on my back in the fearful game that I’m playing with such desperate hopefulness against hope. But I see our fog is coming in as a sure thing. If it envelops us, what can you do with regard to that drab-tinted sea-monster over yonder?”