Serge himself felt somewhat uneasy, but he had come too far and worked too hard on this errand to incline towards giving up now. Besides, he also was very anxious to reach Sitka. So he shoved off, and both the lads began to paddle with long sweeping strokes. In another minute the arrowy craft had shot away from the roaring islet, and was lost to view in the gathering gloom.
They had not covered more than a mile before the advancing fog enveloped them in its soft, moist folds.
“Whe-e-w!” gasped Phil, breathing rapidly from his vigorous paddling. “Isn’t this smothering?”
“Yes,” replied his companion, “and I’m getting somewhat dubious about finding St. Paul.”
“Oh, I guess we’ll find it all right. We’ve only got to keep the wind at our back. It is blowing from the eastward, you know.”
“But this fog came in from the southward.”
“Do you think so? It seemed to me to come from the east with the breeze.”
“All right,” agreed Serge. “Perhaps it did. I’m not quite sure of my compass up here. We’ve got to keep on now, at any rate, for we could never find Walrus again, while we can hardly miss hitting so big a mark as St. Paul. If we strike either coast we can cruise along it until we come to the village. I’m afraid, though, we won’t get there in time to catch the Phoca.”
“Oh yes, we will. Captain Matthews isn’t the man to go off and leave us when he knows we are going to be back some time to-night. You said you sent word by Ramey, didn’t you?”