"Ben, Mr. Bernard is a good man. He had the right of it about that lying business. I hate myself for it."
"So you said before," answered Ben, beginning another air.
"I know it," interrupted Ralph, "I mean it more and more. I mean never to deceive any one again."
"Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore;' anyway never till you get into trouble again," said Ben.
"I don't care how great the trouble may be, I'll confess and be true. Do you know I tried saying last night what the captain told us he said. Somehow I never liked before to think the Lord was looking at me, but now I am glad he is, for he can see I really mean to do better."
"It's queer you feel that way. I don't see any use worrying over a little lie. I've told dozens of them, and I never felt bad about it. I feel uncomfortable enough now, but I reckon it's my stomach and not my mind. I say, let's go to sleep."
This was easier to say than do, and both boys tossed and rolled in misery with sea-sickness, home-sickness, and fear, until from sheer exhaustion they fell asleep.
The morning dawned foggy, and foggy the day ended. The next day was like this; and the boys were too sick and worried to taste a mouthful of food. The fog did not prevent the fishing, and the two men kept busy with their lines, or their work of dressing the fish, and had little time to devote to the boys, even if they had known what to do for them.
"I wish the two little land-lubbers were safe ashore," was the fervent remark uttered over and over again by the captain, as he and Marcus worked together.
"A storm is coming, and this fog will get blown higher than a kite," the boys heard the captain say.