“No, not yet, but we shall run into it off the Banks, little maiden.”
“What banks, Captain Bradstreet?” asked Weezy, taking a peep through his spy-glass, which rested across the top of Molly’s chair. “I don’t see anything around here but just water.”
“I mean the banks of Newfoundland, an island; but you needn’t look for them, you can’t see them.”
“I can see something though,—something white. Look, look, Captain Bradstreet! Don’t you believe it’s going to begin to fog?”
“Already? Is that so?” The captain raised the glass and peered through it himself. “Yes, you’re right, Bright-Eyes. The fog is ‘going to begin’ to bear down upon us.”
And in a few moments the white fog had shrouded the vessel from stem to stern. Then came at frequent intervals the dreary sound of the fog-horn.
“What a hoarse old thing!” exclaimed Weezy, stopping her ears in disgust. “It brays just like Kirke’s burro, only awful worse.”
“As if it had a long sore throat,” laughed Molly, buttoning her sister’s cape at the neck.
“They’re manning all the lookouts,” remarked the wise Pauline.
“They’re doing what, Pauline? And what are they doing it to?” asked Molly playfully. “Won’t you please speak English?”