"Got any clew as to where they are?" I asks.
"Only the general direction they took," says she. "But something must be done. Think of Auntie being out at this hour! When we get past those little islands we'll begin blowing the horn."
It was sort of weird, take it from me, moseyin' off that way at night into a tangle of islands without any signs up to tell you which way you was goin', or anybody in sight to ask directions of. The moon was still doin' business, but it was droppin' lower every minute. Vee just stands there calm, though, rollin' the wheel scientific, pickin' out the deep water by the difference in color, and lettin' the Agnes fade away behind us as careless as if we had a return ticket.
"Excuse me for remarkin'," says I; "but, while I wouldn't be strong for this sort of excursion as a general thing, with just you and me on the passenger list I don't care if—"
"Blow the horn," cuts in Vee.
Yep, I blew. Over miles and miles of glassy water I blew it, listenin' every now and then for an answer. All I raised, though, was a bird squawk or so; and once we scared up a flock of white herons that sailed off like so many ghosts. Another time some big black things rolled out of the way almost alongside.
"What's them—whales?" I gasps.
"Porpoises," says Vee. "Keep on blowing."
"I'll be qualified as captain of a fish wagon before I'm through," says I. "Looks like that explorin' trio had gone and lost themselves for fair, don't it?"
"They must be somewhere among these islands," says Vee. "They couldn't have gone out on the Gulf, could they?"