Off in Search. ­Eager Outlook. ­Nothing but Fog. ­Speaking a Schooner. ­Pleasant Anecdotes. ­Cheer up. ­The Heart of Corbet.

After the arrival of Bruce and Bart, Captain Corbet did not delay his departure much longer.  The vessel was already afloat, and though the tide was still rising, yet the wind was sufficiently favorable to enable her to go on her way.  The sails were soon set, and, with the new boat in tow, the Antelope weighed anchor, and took her departure.  For about two hours but little progress was made against the strong opposing current; yet they had the satisfaction of reaching the mouth of the river, and by ten o’clock, when the tide turned and began to fall, they were fairly in the bay.  The wind here was ahead, but the strong tide was now in their favor, and they hoped for some hours to make respectable progress.

During this time they had all kept an anxious lookout, but without any result.  No floating craft of any kind appeared upon the surface of the water.  Coming down the river, the sky was unclouded, and all the surrounding scene was fully visible; but on reaching the bay, they saw before them, a few miles down, a lofty wall of light-gray cloud.  Captain Corbet waved his hand towards this.

“We’re in for it,” said he, “or we precious soon will be.”

“What’s that?” asked Phil.

“Our old friend ­a fog bank.  You’d ought to know it by this time, sure.”

There it lay, a few miles off, and every minute brought them nearer.  The appearance of the fog threw an additional gloom over the minds of all, for they saw the hopeless character of their search.  Of what avail would it be to traverse the seas if they were all covered by such thick mists?  Still nothing else was to be done, and they tried to hope for the best.

“Any how,” said Captain Corbet, “thar’s one comfort.  That thar fog may go as quick as it come.  It ony needs a change of wind.  Why, I’ve knowed it all vanish in half an hour, an the fog as thick as it is now.”

“But sometimes it lasts long ­don’t it?”

“I should think it did.  I’ve knowed it hang on for weeks.”

At this gloomy statement the boys said not a word.

Soon after the schooner approached the fog bank, and in a little while it had plunged into the midst of its misty folds.  The chill of the damp clouds, as they enveloped them, struck additional chill to their hearts.  It was into the midst of this that poor Tom had drifted, they thought, and over these seas, amidst this impenetrable atmosphere, he might even now be drifting.  In the midst of the deep dejection consequent upon such thoughts, it was difficult for them to find any solid ground for hope.

The wind was moderate, yet adverse, and the schooner had to beat against it.  As she went on each tack, they came in sight of the shores; but as time passed, the bay widened, and Captain Corbet kept away from the land as much as possible.  All the time the boys never ceased to maintain their forlorn lookout, and watched over the sides, and peered anxiously through the mist, in the hope that the gloomy waters might suddenly disclose to their longing eyes the form of the drifting boat and their lost companion.

“I tell you what it is, boys,” said Captain Corbet, after a long and thoughtful silence; “the best plan of acting in a biz of this kind is to pluck up sperrit an go on.  Why, look at me.  You mind the time when that boat, that thar i-dentical, individdle boat, drifted away onst afore, with youns in it.  You remember all about that, ­course.  Well, look at me.  Did I mourn?  Did I fret?  Was I cast down?  Nary down; not me.  I cheered up.  I cheered up Mr. Long.  I kep everybody in good sperrits.  An what was the result?  Result was, you all turned up in prime order and condition, a enjyin of yourselves like all possessed, along with old O’Rafferty.

“Again, my friends,” he continued, as the boys made no remark, “consider this life air short an full of vycissitoods.  Ups an downs air the lot of pore fallen hoomanity.  But if at the fust blast of misforten we give up an throw up the game, what’s the good of us?  The question now, an the chief pint, is this ­Who air we, an whar air we goin, an what air we purposin to do?  Fust, we air hooman beins; secondly, we air a traversin the vast an briny main; and thirdly, we hope to find a certain friend of ourn, who was borne away from us by the swellin tide.  Thar’s a aim for us ­a high an holy aim; an now I ask you, as feller-critters, how had we ought to go about it?  Had we ought to peek, an pine, an fret, an whine?  Had we ought to snivel, and give it up at the fust?  Or had we ought, rayther, to be up an doin, ­pluck up our sperrits like men, and go about our important work with energy?  Which of these two, my friends?  I pause for a reply.”

This was quite a speech for Captain Corbet, and the effort seemed quite an exhaustive one.  He paused some time for a reply; but as no reply was forthcoming, he continued his remarks.

“Now, see here,” said he; “this here whole business reminds me of a story I once read in a noospaper, about a man up in this here identical river, the Petticoat Jack, who, like a fool, pulled up his boat on the bank, and wont off to sleep in her.  Wal, as a matter of course, he floated off, ­for the tide happened to be risin, ­an when he woke up out of his cool an refreshin slumbers, he found himself afar on the briny deep, a boundin like ‘a thing of life,’ o’er the deep heavin sea.  Besides, it was precious foggy, ­jest as it is now, ­an the man couldn’t see any more’n we can.  Wal, the story went on to say, how that thar man, in that thar boat, went a driftin in that thar fashion, in that thar fog; an he drifted, an drifted, an derifted, for days an days, up an down, on one side an t’other side, an round every way, ­an, mind you, he hadn’t a bit to eat, or to drink either, for that matter, ­’t any rate, the paper didn’t mention no such thing; an so, you know, he drifted, an d-e-e-e-rifted, ­until at last he druv ashore.  An now, whar d’ye think he druv?”

The boys couldn’t think.

“Guess, now.”

The boys couldn’t guess.

“D’ye guv it up?”

They did.

“Wal, the paper said, he druv ashore 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 shore.  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 müde, 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 ashore; 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 ashore 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.  Hello!”

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 passing 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 passed 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 passed 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 circumstances, 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 Petitcodiac.

“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 passed my hull life in the middle of fog banks; but I dare say it’s a leetle tryin to youns.”

The repast that Solomon spread for them on that evening was scarce tasted, and to all his coaxings and remonstrances the boys made no reply.  After the tea was over, they went on deck, and stared silently into the surrounding gloom.  The sight gave them no relief, and gave no hope.  In that dense fog twilight came on soon, and with the twilight came the shadows of the night more rapidly.  At last it grew quite dark, and finally there arose all around them the very blackness of darkness.

“The best thing to do,” said Captain Corbet, “is to go to sleep.  In all kinds of darkness, whether intunnel or extunnel, I’ve allus found the best plan to be to sleep it off.  An I’ve knowed great men who war of my opinion.  Sleep, then, young sirs, while yet you may, while yer young blood is warm, an life is fresh an fair, an don’t put it off to old age, like me, for you mayn’t be able to do it.  Look at me!  How much d’ye think I’ve slep sence I left Mud Creek?  Precious little.  I don’t know how it is, but bein alone with you, an havin the respons’bility of you all, I kine o’ don’t feel altogether able to sleep as I used to do; an sence our late loss ­I ­wal, I feel as though I’d never sleep agin.  I’m talkin an talkin, boys, but it’s a solemn time with me.  On me, boys, rests the fate of that lad, an I’ll scour these here seas till he turns up, ef I hev to do it till I die.  Anxious?  Yes, I am.  I’m that anxious that the diskivery of the lost boy is now the one idée of my life, for which I forget all else; but allow me to say, at the same time, that I fully, furmly, an conshuentiously bleve an affum, that my conviction is, that that thar lad is bound to turn up all right in the end ­right side up ­with care ­sound in every respect, in good order an condition, jest as when fust shipped on board the good schooner Antelope, Corbet master, for Petticoat Jack, as per bill ladin.”

The captain’s tones were mournful.  He heaved a deep sigh as he concluded, and relapsed into a profound and melancholy silence.

The boys waited on deck for some time longer, and finally followed his advice, and sought refuge below.  They were young and strong, and the fatigue which they felt brought on drowsiness, which, in spite of their anxiety, soon deepened into sleep.  All slept, and at length Captain Corbet only was awake.  It was true enough, as he had said, the fate of the lost boy rested upon him, and he felt it.  His exhortations to the boys about keeping up their courage, and his stories about lost men who had drifted to a final rescue, were all spoken more with reference to himself than to them.  He sought to keep up his own courage by these words.  Yet, in spite of his efforts, a profound depression came over him, and well nigh subdued him.  No one knew better than he the many perils which beset the drifting boat in these dangerous waters ­the perils of storm, the perils of fog, the perils of thick darkness, the perils of furious tides, the perils of sunken rocks, of shoals, and of iron-bound coasts.  The boys had gone to sleep, but there was no sleep for him.  He wandered restlessly about, and heavy sighs escaped him.  Thus the time passed with him until near midnight.  Then he roused the mate, and they raised the anchor and hoisted the sails.  It was now the turn of tide, and the waters were falling again, and the current once more ran down the bay.  To this current he trusted the vessel again, beating, as before, against the head wind, which was still blowing; and thus the Antelope worked her way onward through all that dark and dismal night, until at last the faint streaks of light in the east proclaimed the dawn of another day.

Through all that night the boys slept soundly.  The wind blew, the waves dashed, but they did not awake.  The anchor was hoisted, and the sails were set, but the noise failed to rouse them.  Weariness of body and anxiety of mind both conspired to make their sleep profound.  Yet in that profound sleep the anxiety of their minds made itself manifest; and in their dreams their thoughts turned to their lost companion.  They saw him drifting over the stormy waters, enveloped in midnight darkness, chilled through with the damp night air, pierced to the bone by the cold night wind; drifting on amid a thousand dangers, now swept on by furious tides towards rocky shores, and again drawn back by refluent currents over vast sunken sea-ledges, white with foam.  Thus through all the night they slept, and as they slept the Antelope dashed on through the waters, whose foaming waves, as they tumbled against her sides and over her bows, sent forth sounds that mingled with their dreams, and became intermingled with poor Tom’s mournful cries.