“That ought to give you boys an idea of the danger in a Superior fog,” commented the skipper, turning to his young passengers. “With twenty-one boats within fifteen miles, counting the Palmer, Prescott and ourselves, and nobody knows how many others that haven’t any wireless, there are plenty of chances for collisions.”
“Why, it’s three o’clock,” exclaimed Phil, looking at his watch. “What time did the fog set in?”
“Fifteen minutes past twelve,” returned the first mate.
“How long will it last?”
“Goodness knows,” sighed the skipper. “I’ve seen them set in and lift inside an hour and I’ve seen ’em hold three days. Your opinion is as good as mine.”
“Will all these boats be drifting for three days, if the fog holds that long?” asked Ted.
“Unless we can arrange some plan to keep out of the way of one another. Only there are more likely to be sixty than twenty-one boats floating about if the fog holds that long.”
Too careful a navigator to turn over his vessel to the mate when his judgment and nerve might be needed at any moment to meet an emergency, Captain Perkins went into the pilot house, where he regaled the boys with stories of other fogs.
“It’s lifting! It’s lifting!” suddenly shouted a voice, joyfully.
Quickly the skipper was on his bridge, followed by Phil and Ted.