“Hurrah!” he shouted. “That saves us!”
“Anything happened to the tug?”
“What’s coming?”
“Coming?” said Jim. “Why, we are pulling right into the thickest fog you ever saw. It’ll cover us up so they can’t follow us. It isn’t the tug I’m afraid of, now.”
“What then, Jim?”
“It’s the telegraph!” said Jim. “Our getting out’ll be known at every police station in the city, inside of five minutes. We must get ashore as quick as we can.”
“It’s an awful swift tide,” said Joe. “Why don’t you run right ashore?”
“You can’t tell where you’re going, in this fog,” said Jim, anxiously, for it seemed to him that they had gone more than far enough to have crossed the East River at that narrow place, even in a slanting direction. So they had, and all the while they had heard the steam whistles of all sorts of steamers answering each other through the fog. On, on, they went, the four rowers pulling desperately, until Jim asked, hoarsely, as he looked at something just beyond them:
“Boys!—What’s this?—I don’t know much about New York——”