“Not a hooter.”
Mr. Long walked away, and looked mournfully out over the dim sea.
Deep sadness and sore anxiety now reigned over the little vessel. Mr. Simmons said not a word, but sat staring fixedly at the fog. The boys stood in silent groups. Not a word was spoken.
Mr. Long walked forward to the bows, and looked out. The wind was increasing, and the sea was growing rougher. Evening was passing away, night would come—and then, what! To think of those poor lads in the boat was anguish. He walked back again to Captain Corbet.
“Where are we now?”
“Wal, we’re just roundin’ the island.”
“I can’t see it.”
“No, I have to give her a wide berth. It’s low tide, and the ledges are dangerous.”
“Do you think the boat may be drifting out here, or nearer in shore?”
“Wal, accordin’ to my cal’lation, they’d oughter be out here somewhere. Jedgin’ by the direction the boat took, I should say I was followin’ pooty close in their track, though there’s no knowin’ for sartin.”