Ingle ventured a few words by way of conversation, but found his companion in a taciturn mood and not to be drawn into conversation. Both men scanned every headland and inlet till their eyes ached, but with no success, till at length Ingle called out,—
"There's a ship yonder,—a packet, I should say, from the size and build of her."
"Ay, for a guess 'tis Prescott's. I ordered him from St. Mary's yesterday for being too much hand in glove with that scapegrace brother of thine."
A pained look crossed Ralph Ingle's face.
"Forgive me!" said Brent, who had a soft heart under a quick temper. "Whatever may be said of your brother, I put trust in you, and here's my hand on 't."
Ingle did not note the outstretched hand, for his eyes were fixed on something beyond the ship, a smaller boat making for St. Mary's.
"Look!" he said, "to the right there, to the southward of Pine Point! Damnation, how the fog is shutting down!"
Even as he spoke a film gathered between him and the two boats,—a film deepening into a thick veil and that into an impenetrable, impalpable wall of fog.
Brent held his boat straight on her course. On, on, till once again he caught the outline of the packet looming close at hand. Then from the other side he heard a voice which he recognized as Neville's shouting "Boat ahoy!" Then a crash as if a sea monster had both boats and were grinding them between his teeth. A rebound, and then another crash, and above the noise the voice of Philpotts crying, "My God! He's gone!" and a woman's voice sobbing, "O Kit! Dead! Dead!"
"Hard alee!" shouted Ingle to Brent. "Hard alee! or we shall be in the coil with the rest;" and running aft he threw his whole weight on the tiller just in time to shave the packet. They swept into open water, and the wind bore them away till once more the two boats looked like gray phantoms against the grayer sky.