"I thought it was on our port bow!" exclaimed Hopcroft.
"No fear, it was there!" declared Carline, pointing over the yacht's starboard quarter. "Wasn't it, sir?"
Thus appealed to, Mr. Grant had to confess that he was unable to say.
"Wait another minute and you'll hear it again," he added. "Sound plays strange pranks in a fog. Keep our horn going, Wilson; one blast at a time 'cause we're on the starboard tack."
The blare of the stranger's fog-horn grew louder and louder. Still there was no definite indication of the direction from which the sound came. Then a cock crew loudly and brazenly.
"We aren't near land already!" exclaimed Carline.
"No," replied the Scoutmaster. "That shows that the vessel's a fairly large one, since she carries poultry coops. Give her another blast, Phillips."
The resounding echoes had hardly died away when the swish of water from the unseen vessel's bows became unpleasantly audible. Then through a temporary lifting of the mist, appeared the ghostly outlines of a huge full-rigged ship.
A hoarse shout given in a foreign tongue resulted in the stranger porting helm sufficiently to enable her to run under the Puffin's stern. It was a close call, but even in the moment of suspense the Sea Scouts could not help gazing with admiration at the towering canvas and graceful outlines of the craft that had narrowly avoided sending them to the bottom.
"Ohé!" hailed the skipper of the ship. "'Ow ze land bears it?"