“Maybe this isn’t the right cove!” cried John.
Investigation by the light of the flashlight and lots of walking along the fog-bound shore gave forth the astonishing fact that it was not the cove where the sloop had lain!
“There were several coves around here, John,” admitted Stan, “but how we got off the main trail, I don’t know.”
“Sweet potatoes!” moaned John. “We get us a prisoner, and then lose our ship! A fine pair of dicks we are! Are we south or north of our cove?”
“North, no doubt. We’ll go along shore.”
“Hurry!” begged Gagnon.
John was heard to chuckle aloud.
“Hurry!” he echoed. “Great spirits of bulrushes—how you going to hurry through this fog?”
But they did hurry as best they could and after almost a half hour of scrambling along the beach half in the water and half out, daring not to use the light more than necessary, and falling over rocks, they all three fell sprawling over something taut! It was the spare line which Stan had rigged from the bitt of the sloop over the rock to another pointed boulder.
Gratefully, tingling with joy, the boys shoved Gagnon aboard and went below to light their lights. The cabin showed no signs of having been entered and they were glad of that. In the light of the cabin they made Gagnon lie on a bunk while they got their brains working.