"Guess, now."

The boys couldn't guess.

"D'ye guv it up?"

They did.

"Wal, the paper said, he druv ash.o.r.e at Grand Manan; but I've my doubts about it."

The captain paused, looked all around through the fog, and stood for a moment as though listening to some sound.

"I kine o' thought," said he, "that I detected the dash of water on the sh.o.r.e. I rayther think it's time to bring her round."

The vessel was brought round on another tack, and the captain resumed his conversation.

"What I was jest sayin," he continued, "reminds me of a story I onst heard, or read, I forget which (all the same, though), about two boys which went adrift on a raft. It took place up in Scott's Bay, I think, at a ship-yard in that thar locality.

"These two unfortunate children, it seems, had made a raft in a playful mude, an embarkin on it they had been amoosin theirselves with paddlin about by pushin it with poles. At length they came to a pint where poles were useless; the tide got holt of the raft, an the ferrail structoor was speedily swept onward by the foorus current. Very well.

Time rolled on, an that thar raft rolled on too,--far over the deep bellew sea,--beaten by the howlin storm, an acted upon by the remorseless tides. I leave you to pictoor to yourselves the sorrow of them thar two infant unfortunits, thus severed from their hum an parients, an borne afar, an scarce enough close on to keep 'em from the inclemency of the weather. So they drifted, an drifted, an de-e-rifted, until at last they druv ash.o.r.e; an now, whar do you think it was that they druv?"

The boys couldn't say.

"Guess now."

The boys declined.

"Try."

They couldn't.

"Name some place."

They couldn't think of any.

"D'ye guv it up?" asked the captain, excitedly.

They did.

"Well, then," said he, in a triumphant tone, "they druv ash.o.r.e on Brier Island; an ef that thar ain't pooty tall driftin, then I'm a Injine."

To this the boys had no reply to make.

"From all this," continued the captain, "you must perceive that this here driftin is very much more commoner than you hev ben inclined to bleeve it to be. You also must see that thar's every reason for hope.

So up with your gizzards! Pluck up your sperrits! Rise and look fortin an the footoor squar in the face. Squar off at fortin, an hav it out with her on the spot. I don't want to hev you go mopin an whinin about this way. h.e.l.lo!"

Captain Corbet suddenly interrupted his remarks by an exclamation. The exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a sail immediately to windward. She was coming up the bay before the wind, and came swiftly through the fog towards them. In pa.s.sing on her way, she came astern of the Antelope.

"Schooner, ahoy!" cried Captain Corbet; and some conversation took place, in which they learned that the stranger was the schooner Wave, from St. John, and that she had not seen any signs whatever of any drifting boat.

This news was received sadly by the boys, and Captain Corbet had to exert his utmost to rouse them from their depression, but without much effect.

"I don't know how it is," said he, plaintively, "but somehow your blues air contiguous, an I feel as ef I was descendin into a depression as deep as yourn. I don't remember when I felt so depressed, cept last May--time I had to go off in the Antelope with taters, arter I thought I'd done with seafarin for the rest of my life. But that thar vessel war wonderously resussutated, an the speouse of my buzzum druv me away to traverse the sea. An I had to tar myself away from the clingin gerasp of my weepin infant,--the tender bud an bulossum of an old man's life--tar myself away, an feel myself a outcast. Over me hovered contennooly the image of the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with responsive sympathy. An I yearned--an I pined--an I groaned--an I felt that life would be intoll'ble till I got back to the babby. An so it was that I pa.s.sed away, an had scace the heart to acknowledge your youthful cheers. Wal, time rolled on, an what's the result? Here I air. Do I pine now? Do I peek? Not a pine! Not a peek! As tender a heart as ever bet still beats in this aged frame; but I am no longer a purray to sich tender reminiscinsuz of the babby as onst used to consume my vitals."

Thus it was that the venerable captain talked with the boys, and it was thus that he sought, by every possible means, to cheer them up. In this way the day pa.s.sed on, and after five or six hours they began to look for a turn of tide. During this time the schooner had been beating; and as the fog was as thick as ever, it was impossible for the boys to tell where they were. Indeed, it did not seem as though they had been making any progress.

"We'll have to anchor soon," said the captain, closing his eyes and turning his face meditatively to the quarter whence the wind came.

"Anchor?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Wal, you see it'll soon be dead low tide, an we can't go on any further when it turns. We'll have wind an tide both agin us."

"How far have we come now?"

"Wal, we've come a pooty considerable of a lick now--mind I tell you.

'Tain't, of course, as good as ef the wind had ben favorable, but arter all, that thar tide was a pooty considerable of a tide, now."

"How long will you anchor?"

"Why, till the next tarn of tide,--course."

"When will that be?"

"Wal, somewhar about eleven o'clock."

"Eleven o'clock?"

"Yes."

"Why, that's almost midnight."

"Course it is."

"Wouldn't it be better to cruise off in the bay? It seems to me anything is better than keeping still."

"No, young sir; it seems to me that jest now anythin is better than tryin to cruise in the bay, with a flood tide a comin up. Why, whar d'ye think we'd be? It would ony take an hour or two to put us on Cape Chignecto, or Cape d'Or, onto a place that we wouldn't git away from in a hurry,--mind I tell you."

To this, of course, the boys had nothing to say. So, after a half hour's further sail, the anchor was dropped, and the Antelope stopped her wanderings for a time.

Tedious as the day had been, it was now worse. The fog was as thick as ever, the scene was monotonous, and there was nothing to do. Even Solomon's repasts had, in a great measure, lost their attractions. He had spread a dinner for them, which at other times, and under happier circ.u.mstances, would have been greeted with uproarious enthusiasm; but at the present time it was viewed with comparative indifference. It was the fog that threw this gloom over them. Had the sky been clear, and the sun shining, they would have viewed the situation with comparative equanimity; but the fog threw terror all its own around Tom's position; and by shutting them in on every side, it forced them to think of him who was imprisoned in the same way--their lost companion, who now was drifting in the dark. Besides, as long as they were in motion, they had the consciousness that they were doing something, and that of itself was a comfort; but now, even that consolation was taken away from them, and in their forced inaction they fell back again into the same despondency which they had felt at Pet.i.tcodiac.

"It's all this fog, I do believe," said Captain Corbet. "If it want for this you'd all cheer up, an be as merry as crickets."

"Is there any prospect of its going away?"

"Wal, not jest yet. You can't reckon on it. When it chooses to go away, it does so. It may hang on for weeks, an p'aps months. Thar's no tellin. I don't mind it, bein as I've pa.s.sed my hull life in the middle of fog banks; but I dare say it's a leetle tryin to youns."