The long bellow sounded through the white, all-enveloping mist surrounding the old hulk and its young company of castaways.
"That's the Seneca's whistle," exclaimed the ensign anxiously. "She's calling for us."
"Gee! She must know that we can't come to her," exclaimed Paul Perkins.
"I guess she's 'standing by' till the fog lifts," rejoined the officer. "We'll release the bell. That may help to locate us."
But instead of standing by, it became apparent, before long, that the Seneca was cruising about. The reason for supposing this was that the next time they heard the hoot of the siren it sounded much further off.
"How long do these fogs last, as a rule?" enquired Merritt.
"Impossible to say!" was the quick reply, with an anxious look about. "If only we could get a slant of wind!"
But there was not a breath stirring. Only the Good Hope swung to the soft swells, lifting and falling with a hopeless, helpless sort of motion. In fact, an experienced seaman could have told her waterlogged condition by the very "heft and heave" of her, which was sluggish to a degree.
"Well, I suppose we must make up our minds to spend some time here," said Rob, with another attempt to treat the matter lightly. "Goodness, our adventures are surely beginning early this trip!"