"Are you going straight across to Nova Scotia now?" asked Bart.
"Wal, yes; kine o' straight across," was the reply; "ony on our way we've got to call at a certain place, an contenoo our investergations."
"What place is that?"
"It's the Island of Grand Manan—a place that I allers feel the greatest respect for. On that thar island is that celebrated fog mill that I told you of, whar they keep grindin night an day, in southerly weather, so as to keep up the supply of fog for old Fundy. Whatever we'd do without Grand Manan is more'n I can say."
"Is the island inhabited?" asked Bruce.
"Inhabited? O, dear, yas. Thar's a heap o' people thar. It's jest possible that a driftin boat might git ashore thar, an ef so we'll know pooty soon."
"How far is it?"
"O, ony about seven or eight mile."
"We'll be there in an hour or so, then?"
"Wal, not so soon. You see, we've got to go round it."