Lost in the Fog

by James De Mille

And in this way they all contributed to increase the anxiety of the two boys, until at last scarce a ray of hope was left.

"You'd better prepare yourselves for the worst," said one of the men. "If he had an oar he would be all right; but, as it is—well, I don't care about sayin what I think."

"O, you're all too despondent," said Mrs. Watson. "What is the use of looking on the dark side? Come, Bart, cheer up. I'll look on the bright side. Hope for the best. Set out on the search with hope, and a good heart. I'm confident that he will be safe. You will pick him up yourselves, or else you will hear of his escape somewhere. I remember two men, a few years ago, that went adrift and were saved."

"Ay," said one of the men, "I mind that well. They were Tom Furlong and Jim Spencer. But that there boat was a good-sized fishing boat; an such a boat as that might ride out a gale."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Watson. "You're all a set of confirmed croakers. Why, Bart, you've read enough shipwreck books to know that little boats have floated in safety for hundreds of miles. So hope for the best; don't be down-hearted. I'll send two or three men down now to get the boat ready for you. You can't do anything till the morning, you know. Won't you stay here? You had better go to bed at once."

But Bart and Bruce could not think of bed.

"Well, come back any time, and a bed will be ready for you," said Mrs. Watson. "If you want to see about the boat now, the men are ready to go with you."

With those words she led the way out to the kitchen, where a couple of men were waiting. Bart and Bruce followed them down to a boat-house on the river bank, and saw the boat there which Mrs. Watson had offered them. This boat could be launched at any time, and as there was nothing more to be done, the boys strolled disconsolately about, and finally went to the end of the promontory, and spent a long time looking out over the water, and conversing sadly about poor Tom's chances.

There they sat late in the night, until midnight came, and so on into the morning. At last the scene before them changed from a sheet of water to a broad expanse of mud. The water had all retired, leaving the bed of the river exposed.

Of all the rivers that flow into the Bay of Fundy none is more remarkable than the Petitcodiac. At high tide it is full—a mighty stream; at low tide it is empty—a channel of mud forty miles long; and the intervening periods are marked by the furious flow of ascending or descending waters.