"That's better," exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "This ought to disperse the fog."
Another twenty minutes passed, but the fog showed no signs of lifting. Rolling banks of vapour eddied athwart the yacht's course, producing a strange optical effect, as if the Rosalie were drifting bodily to wind'ard. Occasionally, during a lull in the wind, the thunder of distant surf could be heard.
"We ought to be picking up Anvil Point fog signal," Mr. Armitage remarked. "Stand by with the lead-line, Hepburn."
"I hear a syren, sir," declared Woodleigh.
"That's not Anvil Point, then," rejoined the Scoutmaster. "Anyone else hear it?"
Almost immediately came the strident blasts of a steam-whistle—a long blast followed by a short one; a pause, and then long, short, long, short.
Every one of the Rosalie's crew knew what that meant. It was the Morse N.C., signifying: "In distress; require immediate assistance".
It was a call—to which no true seaman would hesitate to respond—to hasten, regardless of risk, to the assistance of the distressed vessel.
"About a couple of miles to the south'ard, I imagine," said Mr. Armitage. "Starboard four, Peter."
"What's happened, I wonder?" inquired Roche.