Still I was not alarmed. I was provoked at my own stubbornness which had gotten us into this predicament and more angry than ever at the person who was the cause of that stubbornness. But I was not frightened. There were other shoals further out and I left the anchor as it was, hoping that it might catch and hold on one of them. I went back once more to my seat by the wheel.
Then followed another interval of silence and inaction. From astern and a good way off sounded the notes of a bell. From the opposite direction came a low groan, indescribably mournful and lonely.
My passenger heard it and spoke.
“What was that?” she demanded, in a startled tone.
“The fog horn at Mackerel Island, the island at the mouth of Wellmouth harbor,” I answered.
“And that bell?”
“That is the fog bell at Crow Point.”
“At Crow Point? Why, it can't be! Crow Point is in Denboro Bay, and that bell is a long way behind us.”
“Yes. We are a mile or more outside the Point now. The tide has carried us out.”
“Carried us—Do you mean that we are out at sea?”