"See if you can get anything out of those Aleuts," suggested Jack.
But although Tom tried to get something understandable from the natives, they only grinned and shook their heads. But at last they fell to their oars again.
"They don't know where they're going, but they're on the way," said Jack with a rather weak attempt at humor.
The sea began to come tumbling up astern of them in long black water rows that broke and whitened with spray now and again. The dory swung skyward and then plunged down as if bound for the bottom of the sea, as the swell nosed under her keel.
The boys exchanged serious glances. Their faces looked several shades paler than when they had left the steamer. The fog lent a ghastly grayish hue to everything. The dismal quality of the weather only added to their perplexity and alarm.
The Aleuts rowed steadily on without a shade of an expression on their greasy, yellow faces.
"Maybe they do know where they are going, after all," said Tom hopefully. "We may be ashore in a short time and laughing over our scare."
The others did not reply and the Aleuts rowed stolidly on like two images as lifeless as Sandy's totem. But in spite of Tom's hopeful prophecy, there was no sign that they were approaching land and friends. Instead, the water grew rougher, the white caps more frequent. The boys exchanged looks of dismay. In all their lives they had never been in such wild waters as these.