“Suppose we go on deck where we can talk a little more safely, sir,” whispered Tom. 180
They made their way above and forward.
“Any further word, Dawson?” inquired the charter-man.
“I haven’t signaled since I brought up that last message,” Joe replied.
“Oh, of course not,” retorted Powell Seaton. “It was an idiotic question for me to ask, but I’m so excited, boys, that I don’t pretend to know altogether what I’m talking about.”
Captain Halstead bent forward to look at the compass. He found Hank Butts steering as straight as the needle itself pointed.
“What on earth can I do to pass the time of waiting?” wondered Mr. Seaton, feverishly.
“Eat,” laughed Tom. “You haven’t had a meal since I don’t know when. Give me the wheel, Hank, and see what you can fix up for Mr. Seaton in the way of food.”
Yet, poking along at that slow rate of speed, cutting through the fog but not able to see a boat’s length ahead, proved an ordeal that tested the patience of all.
After awhile Joe returned to the sending table, in order to get in touch with the “Glide” and make sure that the two vessels were still approaching each other head-on.