The fog held steadily. Now and then voices reached them or the creaking of a boom as some small craft tried to work her way out of the harbor. But for the most part the silence was as thick as the fog which rolled in across the island. The awning was some protection, but it didn’t keep the cockpit dry by any manner of means, and so they got into their oilskins. When five bells had struck below Nelson got worried and tried the whistle. After the third or fourth blast a voice hailed them from off to starboard.
“Hello, there! What’s the matter?” was the inquiry.
“One of our fellows has gone ashore and hasn’t come back,” answered Nelson. “We thought maybe he had got lost in the fog. Where are you?”
“On the steamboat wharf,” was the reply.
“On the steamboat wharf!” muttered Nelson, looking perplexedly about him into the mist. “But the wharf ought to be in the opposite direction, Bob!”
“Pshaw!” answered Bob. “The tide’s swung the boat around, that’s what’s happened.”
“And Tommy’s gone off across the harbor!” chuckled Dan, “looking for butter!”
“What’s over there, I wonder?” asked Nelson.
“I don’t know,” Bob replied, “but it’s a good mile across in a straight line.”
“And Tommy was never able to row straight in his life,” laughed Dan. “Oh, well, he’ll get onto himself after a while and come back.”