At a little after two they reached Pollock Rip, passed within two hundred yards of Shovelful Light-ship and bore southwest around the lower corner of the Cape. Shoals were numerous and the water decidedly unquiet. The Vagabond plunged and kicked, rolled and tossed until Handkerchief Light-ship had been left to port. Southward Nantucket lay stretched upon the water, and to the southwest the hills of Martha’s Vineyard rose blue and hazy from the sea. There was much to see now, for Nantucket Sound was well dotted with sails, while here and there smoke streamers proclaimed the presence of steamboats. One of these, an excursion boat well loaded with passengers, passed close to starboard of them and they spent several moments in politely answering with the whistle the fluttering handkerchiefs and waving hats. It was nearly half-past five when the Vagabond, with over eighty-five miles to her credit since morning, swung around East Chop Light, chugged into Vineyard Haven Harbor and dropped her anchor off the steamship wharf.
“To-day’s cruise,” said Nelson, while they were sprucing up for an evening ashore, “goes to show the difference between poor gasoline and good gasoline. I’d like to fill a launch up with some of those Standard Oil people, put some of that Sanstable gasoline in her tank and set her fifty miles offshore; that’s what I’d like to do!”
They walked over to Cottage City and had dinner—and oh, didn’t it taste good!—at a big hotel, returning to the launch at nine o’clock through a sweet-scented summer night and tumbling into bed as soon as their sleepy bodies allowed.
CHAPTER XIV—IN WHICH TOM DISAPPEARS FROM SIGHT
When Bob awoke the next morning it was to a gray world. The open ports were rimmed with tiny drops of moisture and the mist swirled in like films of smoke. He got out of bed, traversed the cabin, thrust open the hatch and put his head out of doors. The morning was warm and still, so still that the voice of some one on the wharf hundreds of feet away sounded close at hand, so still that the lapping of the water against the hull, usually unnoted, seemed a veritable clamor. The deck, cockpit floor, cabin roof, all surfaces were covered with miniature pools, and Bob’s hands, clasping the doorway, came away wringing wet.
There was nothing to be seen in any direction, save that now and then, as the mist momentarily lessened, the upper part of the mast and rigging of a sloop moored some thirty feet away from the Vagabond became dimly visible. It was as though some mischievous giant had in the night, with a sweep of his hand, sponged everything out of existence, everything save the Vagabond and the little fog-rimmed pool of water in which she sat. It was wonderful and uncanny. It was also very damp, and Bob, standing at the cabin entrance, gazing blankly about him, felt the tiny particles of moisture, blown on a light southwest breath from the ocean, settling on his face and damping his pyjamas until they began to cling to him. He beat a retreat to the cabin, drawing the doors closed behind him, and proceeded to awaken his companions by the simple expedient of pulling the bedclothes off them.
“Get up and look at the fog,” he commanded. “It’s all over the shop and so thick you can cut it with a knife—any knife, even Dan’s!”
“That’s all right,” muttered Tom, striving to keep warm by bringing his knees up to his chin, “you cut me a slice, Bob, and toast it lightly on both sides.”
“Want any butter?” asked Bob solicitously.
“There isn’t any,” answered Tom sleepily.