“Yes, but the breeze feels different to me. It was dry before and now it’s damp. I wouldn’t risk a nickel on the points of the compass at this moment.”
“Then—then how do we know we’re sailing—I mean drifting toward home?” demanded Arnold anxiously.
“We don’t know it. Only thing we know is that the tide is running toward the head of the bay and that we’re going with it. We may fetch up anywhere between Johnstown and the Head. Or we may fetch up on the outer shore of the Head. We’ll get somewhere, though, for the tide isn’t full until nearly ten o’clock tonight. Don’t forget that horn, Phebe. Here, give me a whack at it.”
“I’m getting wet to the skin,” grumbled Arnold when Toby’s effort on the fog-horn had died away. “After this I’m going to be prepared, I can tell you that. I’m going to have a compass, and half a dozen extra oars, and three oilskins, and——”
“How about a gasoline engine with a cunning little propeller stuck out behind?” asked Toby.
“Huh! I wish I had one!”
“If you could wish for just one thing, Arnold, what would it be?” asked Phebe.
Arnold considered for a long moment. Then he answered decisively and with feeling.
“A steak and a baked potato!” said Arnold.