“Rusty!” he whispered. “Wonder if she’ll ever forgive me?”
All too soon his turn at the watch came. The days were long, twenty hours from dark to dawn. By nature a hard driver, inspired by his desire to help the Alaskans, Blackie steered his small craft endlessly through the gray murk.
Then—of a sudden Johnny rubbed his eyes—stared away to the right—closed his eyes—snapped them open again to whisper hoarsely,
“Blackie! The shadow passes.”
“The shadow! Where?”
The boy’s hand pointed.
“As I live!” Blackie muttered.
A short, slim line, little darker than the fog, moved slowly across the spot where sky and sea should meet.
“Ahoy, there!” Blackie roared. “What boat goes there?”
No answer.