After a time this whistle seemed to be no nearer, but to have changed its direction.
“Where in the wide wurruld are we dhjiftin to?” said Pat, trying in vain to peer through the fog.
“We must have passed the island,” said Phil, uneasily.
Pat shook his head in silence.
But now new anxiety came to the two castaways, and the faint hopes that had arisen began to subside. The wind was blowing somewhat fresh, the waves were growing larger and more aggressive every moment. They appeared to have been carried beyond the island, and if so, they had no hope of any escape, unless they should come upon some vessel. But in that dense fog such a hope was faint indeed. Even in broad day their situation would have been dangerous, but now it was nothing less than desperate. These thoughts now came to each of them, and they said nothing, but they still worked, as if mechanically, at the oars.
Suddenly something dark loomed immediately before them through the fog, and in a few seconds, as the swift tide bore them nearer, they saw rocks and sea-weed.
“Hurrah!” cried Pat. “It’s the island, afther all.”
But at that moment the great fog whistle sent forth its blast, which sounded far away over the waters.
“‘Tain’t the island, ayther, sure enough,” said Pat. “I wondher if it’s the shore.”
By this time they were close up to the rocks, and Pat leaped off. It was not deeper than his waist. Phil followed, and they pulled the boat forward. It was a shelving ledge of rock, covered with sea-weed; and drawing the boat as far up on this as they could, they stood still, and rested, and looked around.