“All the way,” answered Alan quickly, “but over the water—not over barn yards. Them’s pigs. The course is wrong.”
“And you’re on the Nova Scotia side of the bay aren’t you?”
“We ought to be. But it looks like we’re sailin’ over a lot of Blue Nose Cajan farms. And there ain’t no farms called for by my chart.”
“I once read a book about Nova Scotia, ‘Among the Blue Noses’—and now I’m glad I did,” went on Ned. “Don’t get scared. You’re all right. The forty-foot tide of old Fundy is just comin’ in—that’s all. Drop her down again. You’re in no danger.”
“Do tides squeal like pigs?” almost sneered Roy, his face a blank.
“Listen to a bit of natural history,” went on Ned. “Be it known that this shore of Fundy is a succession of small farms. Each farm supports its share of pigs. But this support is not corn, of which there is none to spare. The pigs must forage for themselves. From living on the sea shore the porkers have learned that clams are succulent and fattening. When the tide is in, there is no beach on which to pick up a dinner. When it is out, it is good and out. The forty feet that it rises gives a beach two or three miles wide in places when the tide is out. Seeking the freshest and fattest clams, the Blue Nose pigs follow the receding tide as far as they can. Then occurs something that proves one is right when he calls another a pig—meaning the other has a pig intellect. However old they grow, these clam chasing pigs never learn by experience. They are always astonished when the tide turns. They doubt the fact until the rising water swashes their noses. But they have learned one thing—unless they beat old Fundy they’ll need no more clams. They fly before the swift tide and race for the farm. Their grunts are expressions of astonishment and anger. You’ve just heard the racing pigs of Fundy. For further details consult the skipper of any old New Brunswick lumber lugger.”
For a few moments Alan and Roy eyed Ned in silence.
“I guess you’re right again,” said Roy soberly as he turned to his desk and took up his chart.
“If you’re quite through,” said Alan in turn without a smile and bringing the Flyer toward the sea again, “I suggest you ask Buck to bring up some food.”
“That must be Amherst now,” exclaimed Ned sobering instantly as the noise of a puffing engine sounded through the fog. In a moment there was no doubt of it. The Flyer, less than four hundred feet in the air, shot over the edge of the little city. Ned threw open the port door and hung over the gallery rail to get more details. As the fog rolled in Alan shouted: