“Do you need any help getting it over?” asked Hinpoha.
“Why, yes,” said the Captain, laughing, “come along if you want to.” Hinpoha tripped gaily over the beach and seated herself in the launch with him.
“Hadn’t you better wear your sweater?” asked the Captain, looking rather doubtfully at Hinpoha’s low-necked and short-sleeved middy. “There’s a raw wind today and cutting against it will make it worse.”
Hinpoha shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not a bit cold,” she replied carelessly. “I always go like this; even in lots colder weather. I’m so hardened down to it that I never catch cold. Besides, we’re not going to be out after dark, are we? You’re just going straight over to St. Pierre and back?”
185“That’s all,” said the Captain. “Just to mail this letter and buy some alcohol for Uncle Teddy and some peanuts for the chippies. Hadn’t ought to take more than an hour and a half altogether.” He started the engine and off they chugged. They reached St. Pierre in good time, mailed the letter, bought the alcohol and the peanuts and a postcard with a picture of a donkey on it to give to Katherine and some lollypops for Slim and started back.
“What’s happened to the sun?” asked Hinpoha. It had been feeble and watery on the way over, but now it had vanished from the sky, and a fine mist seemed to be falling all over. Hinpoha shivered involuntarily as they started off.
“You really should have brought your sweater along,” said the Captain. “Here, spread this tarpaulin over you, it’ll keep you warm a little.”
Hinpoha declared she wasn’t very cold, but, nevertheless, she availed herself of the protection the tarpaulin afforded and was glad to have it. The mist thickened until it looked like steam, and almost before they knew it they were surrounded on all sides by a dense fog. They could not see a boat length ahead of them.
“Nice pickle,” said the Captain, buttoning his collar around his throat. “How are we ever going to find our way back to Ellen’s Isle in this mess?”
Hinpoha strained her eyes trying to peer through the white curtain. “I don’t know,” she said, “unless 186 you can guide yourself by the fog horn in the harbor of St. Pierre. Keep it behind us, you know.”