With some difficulty the boys shoved off the boat. The tide was on the ebb, and she had been left high and dry on the sand.
"There's not enough wind to sail. We will have to pull across," said Carter, getting out the oars. "Where did this fog come from, anyhow?"
A thick white wall was shutting in about them as their little boat danced out in the tide rips; the New York shore became more and more indistinct.
"Are we heading right?" inquired George, after they had rowed in silence for some time.
"I can't see a thing," answered Carter, who was handling the bow oar. "Hark, though! I hear the water against the rocks; we must be off the Battery. Now, a strong pull—together."
George laid all his strength in a tremendous heave; there was a sharp snap, and he went over backwards into the bottom: his oar had broken at the rowlock. At once all headway was lost, and they drifted helplessly.
"I still hear the water on the shore," said Carter. "Come, overboard! Let's swim for it!"
He took off his coat and shoes. George did the same; he was an expert swimmer now, and had long ago made up for his Aunt Clarissa's nervousness.
"Don't dive," he said; "lower yourself carefully and get the right direction."
The boys slid into the swift current. They had taken but two or three strokes when Carter turned.