A veritable roar replied from the Admiral’s siren.
Reaching quickly above his head, Phil switched on the electric lights in the cabin, and the boys stared at one another as a still different-toned whistle joined in the pandemonium.
“Fog!” they gasped, almost in the same breath. And even as they uttered the word, they sprang to the floor, their minds recalling the statement of Captain Perkins in regard to the danger from the palls of mist.
Never another word did either of them speak as they got into their clothes with a rapidity that would have established a record for quick-dressing, had any one been present to time them.
Still silent, they rushed to the door and threw it open, then paused. Not a yard could they see ahead of them.
The screech of the Admiral’s siren seemed continuous, interrupted incessantly by other whistles, while apparently from all about them, so does a Superior fog distort all sense of direction, came hails, some loud, others faint, in accordance with the distance of their utterers, “Don’t see a thing!” from the lookouts on the carriers.
“Let’s go to the bridge,” whispered Phil, in an awed tone.
“But we may lose our way—and fall overboard. You know what Captain Perkins said about bodies—”
“Forget that,” cut in the elder boy. “Just take hold of my arm. I’ll keep one hand on the cabin. Come on.”
As they gained the bridge, the young passengers were just able to distinguish half a dozen forms.