Hour after hour wore on thus. During the afternoon they ate sparingly, and took turns lying in the bottom of the boat and taking a nap. At last darkness shut down on them, and then they began to be really panic-stricken.
Not a sound had come to them out of the fog, and, for all they knew, they might be miles from the White Shark. The ocean was full of currents thereabouts; that, Jack knew full well. Possibly they had been caught in one of those and were being carried farther and farther from their friends. At any rate, it seemed certain that if they were anywhere near the submarine they would have heard the sound of the whistle; for Jack knew that those on board that craft must be worried half distraught by the nonappearance of the young fishermen.
“I wish this old boat had been at the bottom of the sea before we ever found her,” muttered Tom disconsolately.
“So do I. But wishing will do no good. It’s action that counts in this world.”
“Of course; but how are you going to get action when there is no field for it?”
“You’re right, Tom; but waiting about like this, not knowing what’s going to become of us, or even being able to see a foot ahead, is tough.”
“Wonder what they are doing on board now?”
Tom’s words brought up a vision of the snug cabin of the submarine with all its comforts, and the table spread with Jupe’s excellent cooking.
“Don’t,” groaned Jack, “don’t make me think of it. They must be terribly worried, Tom.”
“I wish their worry would bring them to find us,” rejoined Tom; “but, of course, they couldn’t do that in this mess. It’s a regular game of blindman’s buff.”