A Cry of Horror. ­What shall we do? ­Hard and fast. ­Bart and Bruce. ­Gloomy Intelligence. ­The Promontory. ­The Bore of the Petitcodiac. ­A Night of Misery. ­A mournful Waking. ­Taking Counsel.

A cry of horror escaped those on board, and for some time they stood silent in utter dismay.

“The rope wasn’t tied,” groaned Arthur.

“Yes, it was,” said Captain Corbet; “it bruk; catch me not tyin it.  It bruk; see here!” and he held up in the dim light the end of the rope which still was fastened to the schooner.  “I didn’t know it was rotten,” he moaned; “‘tain’t over ten year old, that bit o’ rope, an I’ve had it an used it a thousand times without its ever thinkin o’ breakin.”

“What can we do?” cried Arthur.  “We must do something to save him.”

Captain Corbet shook his head.

“We’ve got no boat,” said he.

“Boat!  Who wants a boat?”

“What can we do without a boat?”

“Why, up anchor, and go after him with the schooner.”

“The schooner’s hard and fast,” said Captain Corbet, mournfully.

“Hard and fast?”

“Yes; don’t you notice how she leans?  It’s only a little, but that’s a sign that her keel’s in the mud.”

“I don’t believe it!  I won’t believe it!” cried Arthur.  “Come, boys, up with the anchor.”

As the boys rushed to the windlass, Captain Corbet went there, too, followed by the mate, and they worked at it for some time, until at last the anchor rose to the surface.

But the Antelope did not move.  On the contrary, a still greater list to one side, which was now unmistakable, showed that the captain was right, and that she was actually, as he said, hard and fast.  This fact had to be recognized, but Arthur would not be satisfied until he had actually seen the anchor, and then he knew that the vessel was really aground.

“Do you mean to say,” he cried at last, “that there is nothing to be done?”

“I don’t see,” said Captain Corbet, “what thar is to be done till the schewner muves.”

“When will that be?”

“Not till to-morrow mornin.”

“How early?”

“Not before eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock!” cried Arthur, in horror.

“Yes, eight o’clock.  You see we had to come in pooty nigh to the shore, an it’ll be eight o’clock before we’re floated.”

“And what’ll become of poor Tom?” groaned Arthur.

“Wal,” said the captain, “don’t look on the wüst.  He may get ashore.”

“He has no oar.  The oar was thrown aboard of the schooner.”

“Still he may be carried ashore.”

“Is there any chance?”

“Wal, not much, to tell the truth.  Thar’s no use of buo-oyin of ourselves up with false hopes; not a mite.  Thar’s a better chance of his bein picked up.  That thar’s likely now, an not unnatooral.  Let’s all don’t give up.  If thar’s no fog outside, I’d say his chances air good.”

“But it may be foggy.”

“Then, in that case, he’ll have to drift a while ­sure.”

“Then there’s no hope.”

“Hope?  Who’s a sayin thar’s no hope?  Why, look here; he’s got provisions on board, an needn’t starve; so if he does float for a day or two, whar’s the harm?  He’s sure to be picked up eventooally.”

At this moment their conversation was interrupted by a loud call from the promontory.  It was the voice of Bruce.

While these events had been taking place on board the schooner, Bruce and Bart had been ashore.  At first they had waited patiently for the return of the boat, but finally they wondered at her delay.  They had called, but the schooner was too far off to hear them.  Then they waited for what seemed to them an unreasonably long time, wondering what kept the boat, until at length Bruce determined to try and get nearer.  Burt was to stay behind in case the boat should come ashore in his absence.  With this in view he had walked down the promontory until he had reached the extreme point, and there he found himself within easy hail of the Antelope.

“Schooner ahoy!” he cried.

“A-ho-o-o-o-y!” cried Captain Corbet.

“Why don’t you come and take us off?” he cried.

After this there was silence for some time.  At last Captain Corbet shouted out, ­

“The boat’s lost.”

“What!”

“The boat’s adrift.”

Captain Corbet said nothing about Tom, from a desire to spare him for the present.  So Bruce thought that the empty boat had drifted off, and as he had been prepared to hear of some accident, he was not much surprised.

But he was not to remain long in ignorance.  In a few moments he heard Arthur’s voice.

“Bruce!”

“Hallo!”

“The boat’s gone.”

“All right.”

“Tom’s adrift in her!”

“What!” shouted Bruce.

“Tom’s adrift in her.”

At this appalling intelligence Bruce’s heart seemed to stop beating.

“How long?” he dried, after a pause.

“Half an hour,” cried Arthur.

“Why don’t you go after him?” cried Bruce again.

“We’re aground,” cried Arthur.

The whole situation was now explained, and Bruce was filled with his own share of that dismay which prevailed on board of the schooner; for a long time nothing more was said.  At length Arthur’s voice sounded again.

“Bruce!”

“Hallo!”

“Get a boat, and come aboard as soon as you can after the tide turns.”

“All right.  How early will the tide suit?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Not before?”

“No.”

After this nothing more was said.  Bruce could see for himself that the tide was falling, and that he would have to wait for the returning tide before a boat could be launched.  He waited for some time, full of despair, and hesitating to return to Bart with his mournful intelligence.  At length he turned, and walked slowly back to his friend.

“Well, Bruce?” asked Bart, who by this time was sure that some accident had happened.

“The boat’s adrift.”

“The boat!”

“Yes; and what’s worse, poor Tom!”

“Tom!” cried Bart, in a horror of apprehension.

“Yes, Tom’s adrift in her.”

At this Bart said not a word, but stood for some time staring at Bruce in utter dismay.

A few words served to explain to Bart the situation of the schooner, and the need of getting a boat.

“Well,” said Bart, “we’d better see about it at once.  It’s eleven o’clock, but we’ll find some people up; if not, we’ll knock them up.”

And with these words the two lads walked up from the river bank.

On reaching the houses attached to the shipyard, they found that most of the people were up.  There was a good deal of singing and laughter going on, which the boys interpreted to arise from a desire to celebrate the launching of the ship.  They went first to Mrs. Watson’s house, where they found that good lady up.  She listened to their story with undisguised uneasiness, and afterwards called in a number of men, to whom she told the sad news.  These men listened to it with very serious faces.

“It’s no joke,” said one, shaking his head.  The others said nothing, but their faces spoke volumes.

“What had we better do?” asked Bruce.

“Of course ye’ll be off as soon as ye can get off,” said one.

“The lad might have a chance,” said another.  “The return tide may drift him back, but he may be carried too far down for that.”

“He’ll be carried below Cape Chignecto unless he gets to the land,” said another.

“Isn’t there a chance that he’ll be picked up?” asked Bart.

The man to whom he spoke shook his head.

“There’s a deal of fog in the bay this night,” said he.

“Fog?  Why, it’s clear enough here.”

“So it is; but this place and the Bay of Fundy are two different things.”

“A regular sou-wester out there,” said another man.

“An a pooty heavy sea by this time,” said another.

And in this way they all contributed to increase the anxiety of the two boys, until at last scarce a ray of hope was left.

“You’d better prepare yourselves for the worst,” said one of the men.  “If he had an oar he would be all right; but, as it is ­well, I don’t care about sayin what I think.”

“O, you’re all too despondent,” said Mrs. Watson.  “What is the use of looking on the dark side?  Come, Bart, cheer up.  I’ll look on the bright side.  Hope for the best.  Set out on the search with hope, and a good heart.  I’m confident that he will be safe.  You will pick him up yourselves, or else you will hear of his escape somewhere.  I remember two men, a few years ago, that went adrift and were saved.”

“Ay,” said one of the men, “I mind that well.  They were Tom Furlong and Jim Spencer.  But that there boat was a good-sized fishing boat; an such a boat as that might ride out a gale.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Watson.  “You’re all a set of confirmed croakers.  Why, Bart, you’ve read enough shipwreck books to know that little boats have floated in safety for hundreds of miles.  So hope for the best; don’t be down-hearted.  I’ll send two or three men down now to get the boat ready for you.  You can’t do anything till the morning, you know.  Won’t you stay here?  You had better go to bed at once.”

But Bart and Bruce could not think of bed.

“Well, come back any time, and a bed will be ready for you,” said Mrs. Watson.  “If you want to see about the boat now, the men are ready to go with you.”

With those words she led the way out to the kitchen, where a couple of men were waiting.  Bart and Bruce followed them down to a boat-house on the river bank, and saw the boat there which Mrs. Watson had offered them.  This boat could be launched at any time, and as there was nothing more to be done, the boys strolled disconsolately about, and finally went to the end of the promontory, and spent a long time looking out over the water, and conversing sadly about poor Tom’s chances.

There they sat late in the night, until midnight came, and so on into the morning.  At last the scene before them changed from a sheet of water to a broad expanse of mud.  The water had all retired, leaving the bed of the river exposed.

Of all the rivers that flow into the Bay of Fundy none is more remarkable than the Petitcodiac.  At high tide it is full ­a mighty stream; at low tide it is empty ­a channel of mud forty miles long; and the intervening periods are marked by the furious flow of ascending or descending waters.

And now, as the boys sat there looking out upon the expanse of mud before them, they became aware of a dull, low, booming sound, that came up from a far distant point, and seemed like the voice of many waters sounding from the storm-vexed bay outside.  There was no moon, but the light was sufficient to enable them to see the exposed riverbed, far over to the shadowy outline of the opposite shore.  Here, where in the morning a mighty ship had floated, nothing could now float; but the noise that broke upon their ears told them of the return of the waters that now were about to pour onward with resistless might into the empty channel, and send successive waves far along into the heart of the land.

“What is that noise?” asked Bruce.  “It grows louder and louder.”

“That,” said bart, “is the Bore of the Petitcodiac.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“Never.  I’ve heard of it often, but have never seen it.”

But their words were interrupted now by the deepening thunder of the approaching waters.  Towards the quarter whence the sound arose they turned their heads involuntarily.  At first they could see nothing through the gloom of night; but at length, as they strained their eyes looking down the river, they saw in the distance a faint, white, phosphorescent gleam, and as it appeared the roar grew louder, and rounder, and more all-pervading.  On it came, carrying with it the hoarse cadence of some vast surf flung ashore from the workings of a distant storm, or the thunder of some mighty cataract tumbling over a rocky precipice.

And now, as they looked, the white, phosphorescent glow grew brighter, and then whiter, like snow; every minute it approached nearer, until at last, full before them and beneath them, there rolled a giant wave, extending across the bed of the river, crescent-shaped, with its convex side advancing forwards, and its ends following after within short distance from the shore.  The great wave rolled on, one mass of snow-white foam, behind which gleamed a broad line of phosphorescent lustre from the agitated waters, which, in the gloom of night, had a certain baleful radiance.  As it passed on its path, the roar came up more majestically from the foremost wave; and behind that came the roar of other billows that followed in its wake.  By daylight the scene would have been grand and impressive; but now, amid the gloom, the grandeur became indescribable.  The force of those mighty waters seemed indeed resistless, and it was with a feeling of relief that the boys reflected that the schooner was out of the reach of its sweep.  Its passage was swift, and soon it had passed beyond them; and afar up the river, long after it had passed from sight, they heard the distant thunder of its mighty march.

By the time the wave had passed, the boys found themselves excessively weary with their long wakefulness.

“Bart, my boy,” said Bruce, “we must get some rest, or we won’t be worth anything to-morrow.  What do you say?  Shall we go back to Mrs. Watson’s?”

“It’s too late ­isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s pretty late, no doubt.  I dare say it’s half past two; but that’s all the more reason why we should go to bed.”

“Well.”

“What do you say?  Do you think we had better disturb Mrs. Watson, or not?”

“O, no; let’s go into the barn, and lie down in the hay.”

“Very well.  Hay makes a capital bed.  For my part, I could sleep on stones.”

“So could I.”

“I’m determined to hope for the best about Tom,” said Bruce, rising and walking off, followed by Bart.  “Mrs. Watson was right.  There’s no use letting ourselves be downcast by a lot of croakers ­is there?”

“No,” said Bart.

The boys then walked on, and in a few minutes reached the ship-yard.

Here a man came up to them.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” said the man.  “Mrs. Watson is anxious about you.”

“Mrs. Watson?”

“Yes.  She won’t go to bed till you get back to the house.  There’s another man out for you, up the river.”

“O, I’m sorry we have given you all so much trouble,” said Bart; “but we didn’t think that anybody would bother themselves about us.”

“Well, you don’t know Mrs. Watson that’s all,” said the man, walking along with them.  “She’s been a worrytin herself to death about you; and the sooner she sees you, the better for her and for you.”

On reaching the house the boys were received by Mrs. Watson.  One look at her was enough to show them that the man’s account of her was true.  Her face was pale, her manner was agitated, and her voice trembled as she spoke to them, and asked them where they had been.

Bart expressed sorrow at having been the cause of so much trouble, and assured her he thought that she had gone to bed.

“No,” said she; “I’ve been too excited and agitated about your friend and about you.  But I’m glad that you’ve been found; and as it’s too late to talk now, you had better go to bed, and try to sleep.”

With these words she gently urged them to their bedroom; and the boys, utterly worn out, did not attempt to withstand her.  They went to bed, and scarcely had their heads touched the pillows before they were fast asleep.

Meanwhile the boys on board the Antelope had been no less anxious; and, unable to sleep, they had talked solemnly with each other over the possible fate of poor Tom.  Chafing from their forced inaction, they looked impatiently upon the ebbing water, which was leaving them aground, when they were longing to be floating on its bosom after their friend, and could scarcely endure the thought of the suspense to which they would be condemned while waiting for the following morning.

Captain Corbet also was no less anxious, though much less agitated.  He acknowledged, with pain, that it was all his fault, but, appealed to all the boys, one by one, asking them how he should know that the rope was rotten.  He informed them that the rope was an old favorite of his, and that he would have willingly risked his life on it.  He blamed himself chiefly, however, for not staying in the boat himself, instead of leaving Tom in it.  To all his remarks the boys said but little, and contented themselves with putting questions to him about the coast, the tides, the wind, the currents, and the fog.

The boys on board went to sleep about one o’clock, and waked at sunrise.  Then they watched the shore wistfully, and wondered why Bart and Bruce did not make their appearance.  But Bart and Bruce, worn out by their long watch, did not wake till nearly eight o’clock.  Then they hastily dressed themselves, and after a very hurried breakfast they bade good by to good Mrs. Watson.

“I shall be dreadfully anxious about that poor boy,” said she, sadly.  “Promise me to telegraph as soon as you can about the result.”

Bart promised.

Then they hurried down to the beach.  The tide was yet a considerable distance out; but a half dozen stout fellows, whose sympathies were fully enlisted in their favor, shoved the boat down over the mud, and launched her.

Then Bart and Bruce took the oars, and soon reached the schooner, where the boys awaited their arrival in mournful silence.