“Hank!” called the young skipper, and Butts came to the bridge deck.
“Sound the fog-whistle every minute,” directed Halstead.
“Too-whoo-oo-oo!” sounded the melancholy, penetrating note through the mist.
“Are you going to keep that up, Captain Halstead?” inquired Mr. Seaton, in instant apprehension.
“Got to, sir. It’s the law of the ocean in a deep fog.”
“But it signals our location to the enemy on the drab boat.”
“If it keeps the seventy-footer within sound of our horn all the time,” laughed Halstead, 173 “so much the better. Then the Drab will be within range of our marine glasses when the fog lifts.”
“It shows those rascals the direction of our course, too,” cried Seaton, in a still troubled voice.
“We’ve got to observe the law, sir, even if they do break it,” Tom gently urged. “That other boat’s people have been acting like pirates all along, but that would be no excuse for us. What if we cut into a lumber-laden schooner, and sank her at once?”
Mr. Seaton was obliged to nod his assent.