"Where are we, Peterson?" I asked, putting a finger on the wet chart

before us.

"I don't know," replied the old man. "It depends on the drift, which

we can't calculate. Soundings mean nothing, for she's shallow for

miles. If the fog would break, so we could see the light--there ain't

any fog-buoy on that channel mouth, and it's murder that there ain't.

It's this d----d fog that makes it bad."

I looked at my watch. It was now going on five o'clock, and in this

light, it soon would be night for us. Peterson caught the time, and

frowned. "Wish't we was in," said he. "No use trying to anchor unless

we must, anyhow--she'll ride mighty wet out here. Better buck on into

it."

So we bucked on in, till five, till five-thirty, till six, and all

the boat's lights revealed was a yellow circle of fog that traveled

with us. Wet and chilled, we two stood at the wheel together, in such

hard conditions that no navigator and no pilot could have done much

more than grope.

"We must have missed her!" admitted the old skipper at last. "I don't

fancy the open gulf, and I don't fancy piling her up on some shore in

here. What do you think we should do, Mr. Harry?"

"Listen!" said I, raising a hand.

"There's no bell-buoy," said he.

"No, but hark. Don't you hear the birds--there's a million geese and

swans and ducks calling over yonder."

"Right, by George!" said he. "But where?"

"They'd not be at sea, Peterson. They must be in some fresh-water lake

inside some key or island. On the Long Key there's such an inland

lake."

"It's beyond the channel, maybe?" said he. But he signaled Williams to

go slow, and that faithful unseen Cyclops, on whose precious engines

so much depended, obeyed and presently put out a head at his hatch,

quickly withdrawing it as a white sea came inboard.

"We'll crawl on in," said Peterson. "The light can't be a thousand

miles from here. If only there was a nigger man and a dinner bell

beside the light--that's the trouble. And now--good God! There she

goes!"

With a jar which shook the good boat to the core, we felt the bottom

come up from the depths and smite us. Our headway ceased, save for a

sickening crunching crawl. The waves piled clear across our port bow

as we swung. And so we hung, the gulf piling in on us in our yellow

rimmed world. And at the lift and hollow of the sea we rose and

pounded sullenly down, in such fashion as would have broken the back

of any boat less stanch than ours.

Here, in an eye's flash, was danger tangible and real. I heard a

shriek from the cabin aft, and called out for them all to keep below

and keep the ports closed. Peterson had the power off in an instant,

and swung her head as best he could with the dying headway; but it

only put her farther on the shoal.




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