Morning came––it seemed to Archie Armstrong that it never would come––morning came in a thick fog to Tom Topsail and the lad. In a general way Tom Topsail had his bearings, but he was somewhat doubtful about trusting to them. The fog thickened with an easterly wind. It blew wet and rough and cold. The water, in so far as it could be seen from the island, was breaking in white-capped waves; and an easterly wind was none of the best on the Burnt Bay course. But Tom Topsail and Archie put confidently out. The mixed accommodation was not due at Burnt Bay until 12:33. She would doubtless be late; 308 she was always late. There was time enough; perhaps there would be time and to spare. The wind switched a bit to the south of east, however, and became nearly adverse; and down came the fog, thick and blinding. A hundred islands, and the narrowing main-shore to port and starboard, were wiped out of sight. There were no longer landmarks.
“Man,” Tom Topsail declared, at last, “I don’t know where I is!”
“Drive on, Tom,” said Archie.
The punt went forward in a smother of water.
“Half after eleven,” Archie remarked.
Tom Topsail hauled the sheet taut to pick up another puff of wind. An hour passed. Archie had lost the accommodation if she were on time.
“They’s an island dead ahead,” said Tom. “I feels it. Hark!” he added. “Does you hear the breakers?”
Archie could hear the wash of the sea.
“Could it be Right-In-the-Way?” Tom Topsail wondered. “Or is it Mind-Your-Eye Point?”