Solomon’s solemn Tale. ­A costly Lobster. ­Off again. ­Steam Whistles of all Sizes. ­A noisy Harbor. ­Arrival Home. ­No News.

The shout of joy uttered by those on the top of the cliff at seeing old Solomon safe was responded to by those in the boat; and then, as the latter went on her way, Captain Corbet set out to return to the beach, followed by Phil and Pat.  Soon they were all reunited, and, the boat being landed, they returned in triumph to the Antelope.

On their way back, Solomon told them the story of his adventures.

“Went out,” said he, “on a splorin scursion, cos I was termined to try an skewer somethin to make a dinnah to keep up de sperrit ob dis yah party.  Ben trouble nuff, an dat’s no reason why we should all starb.  I tought by de looks ob tings dar was lobstas somewhar long dis yah sho, an if I got a chance, I knowed I could get ’em.  Dar was lots ob time too, ef it hadn’t ben fur dat ar pint; dat’s what knocked me.  Lots o’ lobstas ­could hab picked up a barl full, ony hadn’t any barl to pick up.”

“Well, but how did you happen to get caught?”

“Dat ar’s jes what I’m a comin to.  You see, I didn’t tink ob dat ar pint when I went up de sho, ­but knowed I had lots ob time; so I jes tought I’d make sure ob de best ob de lobstas.  Wan’t goin to take back any common lobstas, ­bet you dat, ­notin for me but de best, ­de bery best ones dar.  Dat ar’s what kep me.  It takes a heap ob time an car to get de best ones, when dar’s a crowd lyin about ob all sizes, an de water comin in too.”

“But didn’t you see that the tide was coming up to the point?”

“Nebber see a see, ­not a see; lookin ober de lobstas all de time, an mos stracted wid plexity cos I couldn’t cide bout de best ones.  Dar was lots an lots up dar at one place, dough I didn’t go fur, ­but ef I’d gone fur, I’d hab got better ones.”

“How far did you go?”

“Not fur, ­ony short distance, ­didn’t want to go too fur away for feah ob not gittin back in time.  An so I started to come back pooty soon, an walked, an walked.  Las, jes as I got to de pint, I rose my olé head, an looked straight afore me, an thar, clar ef I didn’t fine myself shut in, ­reglar prison, ­mind I tell you, ­an all round me a reglar cumferince ob water an rock, widout any way ob scape.  Tell you what, if dar ebber was a olé rat in a trap, I was at dat ar casion.”

“Couldn’t you have waded through it before it got too high?”

“Waded?  Not a wade; de water was rough an deep, an de bottom was stones dat I’d slipped oba an almost broke my olé head, sides bein drownded as dead as a herrín.  Why, what you tink dis olé nigga’s made ob?  I’m not a steam injine, nor a mowin machine, nor a life boat.  I’m ony a olé man, an shaky in de legs too, ­mind I tell you.”

“Well, how did you manage it?”

“Manage!  Why, I didn’t manage at all.”

“How did you find that place where you were sitting?”

“Wasn’t settin.  I was tied up in a knot, or rolled up into a ball.  Any way, I wasn’t settin.”

“Well, how did you find the place?”

“Wal, I jes got up dar.  I stood on de sho till de water drobe me, an I kep out ob its way till at las I found myself tied up de way you saw me.”

“Why didn’t you halloo?”

“Hollar?  Didn’t I hollar like all possessed?”

“We didn’t hear you.”

“Wal, dat ar’s dredful sterious.  An me a hollarin an a yellin like mad.  Tell you what, I felt as ef I’d bust my olé head open, I did yell that hard.”

“Couldn’t you manage to climb up that cliff?”

“Dat cliff?  Climb up?  Me?  What! me climb up a cliff? an dat cliff?  Why, I couldn’t no more climb up dat ar cliff dan I could fly to de moon.  No, sah.  Much as I could do to keep whar I was, out ob de water.  Dat was enough.”

“Don’t you know that we walked two miles up the shore?”

“Two miles!  Two!  De sakes, now, chil’en! did you, railly?  Ef I’d a ony knowed you war a comin so near, wouldn’t I a yelled?  I bet I would.”

“Why, you didn’t think we’d have left you.”

“Lef me?  Nebber.  But den I didn’t tink you’d magine anyting was wrong till too late.  What I wanted was help, den an dar.  De trouble was, when you did come, you all made dat ar circumbendibus, an trabelled clean an clar away from me.”

“We thought at first you could not be so near the point.”

“But de pint was de whole difficulty.  Dat’s de pint.”

“Well, at any rate, you’ve saved the lobsters.”

“Yah! yah! yah!  Yes.  Bound to sabe dem dar.  Loss my olé hat, an nearly loss my olé self; but still I hung on to dem dar lobstas.  Tell you what it is now, dey come nigh onto bein de dearest lobstas you ebber eat.  I’be done a good deal in de way ob puttin myself out to get a dinna at odd times for you, chil’en; but dis time I almost put myself out ob dis mortial life.  So when you get your dinnas to-day, you may tink on what dat ar dinna come nigh to costin.”

“I wonder that you held on to them so tight, when they brought you into such danger.”

“Hole on?  Why, dat ar’s de berry reason why I did hole on.  What, let go ob dem arter all my trouble on dat count?  No.  I was bound to hab somethin to show whenebber I got back, if I ebber did get back; and so here I am, all alibe, an a bringin my lobstas wid me.”

“Well, Solomon,” said Bart, in a kindly tone, “old man, the lobsters have come near costing us pretty dear, and we felt bad enough, I can tell you, when we went up there along the shore calling for you and getting no answer.”

“What, you did car for de olé man, Mas’r Bart ­did you?” said Solomon, in a tremulous voice.  Tears started to his eyes as he said it, and all power of saying anything more seemed to depart from him.  He fell back behind the others, and walked on for the rest of the way in silence, but at times casting upon Bart glances that spoke volumes, and talking to himself in inaudible tones.

In this way they soon reached the wharf where the schooner was lying.

The first thing that they noticed was, that the schooner was aground.  The tide had gone out too far for her to float away, and consequently there was no hope of resuming their voyage for that day.

“We’re in for it, captain,” said Bruce

“Yes; I felt afeard of it,” said the captain.  “We’ve got to wait here till the next tide.”

“We’ll leave to-night, of course.”

“O, yes.  We must get off at the night’s tide, and drop down the bay.”

“How far had we better go?”

“Wal, I ben a thinkin it all over, an it’s my opinion that we’d better go to St. John next.  We may hear of him there, an ef he don’t turn up we can send out some more vessels, an give warnin that he’s astray on the briny biller.”

“At what time will we be able to leave?”

“Wal, it’ll not be high tide till near one o’clock, but we can git off ef thar’s a wind a leetle before midnight.”

“Do you think the wind will hold on?”

The captain raised his head, and looked at the sky; then he looked out to sea, and then he remained silent for a few minutes.

“Wal,” said he, at last, slowly and thoughtfully, “it’ll take a man with a head as long as a hoss to answer that thar.  It mought hold on, an then agin it moughtn’t.”

“At any rate, I suppose we can drift.”

“O, yes; an of the wind doosn’t come round too strong, we can git nigh down pooty close to St. John by mornin.”

“We’ll run down with the tide.”

“Percisely.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to put the time through the best way we can, and try to be patient.  Only it seems hard to be delayed so much.  First there was the fog, which made our search useless; and now, when there comes a bright day, when we can see where we’re going, here we are tied up in Quaco all day and all night.”

“It doos seem hard,” said Captain Corbet, gravely, “terrible hard; an ef I owned a balloon that could rise this here vessel off the ground, an convey her through the air to her nat’ral element, I’d hev it done in five minutes, an we’d all proceed to walk the waters like things of life.  But I don’t happen to own a balloon, an so thar you air.

“But, boys,” continued the captain, in a solemn voice, elevating his venerable chin, and regarding them with a patriarchal smile, ­“boys, don’t begin to go on in that thar old despondent strain.  Methinks I hear some on you a repinin, an a frettin, cos we’re stuck here hard an fast.  Don’t do it, boys; take my advice, an don’t do it.  Bear in mind the stirrin an memiorable events of this here mornin.  See what a calamity was a threatenin us.  Why, I declare to you all, thar was a time when I expected to see our aged friend Solomon no more in the flesh.  You could not tell it by my manner, for I presarved a calm an collected dumeanour; but yet, I tell you, underneath all that icy calm an startlin good-natur of my attitood, I concealed a heart that bet with dark despair.  At that moment, when we in our wanderins had reached the furthest extremity that we attained onto, I tell you my blood friz, an my har riz in horror!  Methought it were all up with Solomon; and when I see his hat, it seemed to me jest as though I was a regardin with despairin eye his tumestun whereon war graven by no mortial hand the solemn an despairin epigram, ‘Hic jacet!’

“So now, my friends,” continued the captain, as he brushed a tear-drop from his eye, “let us conterrol our feelins.  Let us be calm, and hope for the best.  When Solomon took his departoor, an was among the missin, I thought that an evil fortin was a berroodin over us, and about to consume us.  But that derream air past.  Solomon is onst more among the eatables.  He cooks agin the mortial repast.  He lives!  So it will be with our young friend who has so mysteriously drifted away from our midst.  Cheer up, I say!  Them’s my sentiment.  He’ll come to, an turn up, all alive ­right side up ­with care, ­C.  O. D., ­O.  K., ­to be shaken before taken, ­marked and numbered as per margin, ­jest as when shipped, in good order an condition, on board the schooner Antelope, Corbet master, of Grand Pre.”

These words of Captain Corbet had a very good effect upon the boys.  They had already felt very much cheered by the escape of Solomon, and it seemed to them to be a good omen.  If Solomon had escaped, so also might Tom.  And, as their anxiety on Solomon’s account had all been dispelled by his restoration, so also might they hope that their anxiety about Tom would be dispelled.  True, he had been lost to them for a much longer time, and his absence was certainly surrounded by a more terrible obscurity than any which had been connected with that of Solomon.  Yet this one favorable circumstance served to show them that all might not be so dark as they had feared.  Thus, therefore, they began to be more sanguine, and to hope that when they reached St. John, some tidings of the lost boy might be brought to them.

Solomon’s exertions towards giving them a dinner were on this day crowned with greater success than had been experienced for some days past.  Their exertions had given them an appetite, and they were able to eat heartily for the first time since Tom’s departure.

The rest of the day passed very slowly with them.  They retired early, and slept until midnight.  At that time they waked, and went on deck, when they had the extreme satisfaction of seeing the vessel get under way.  A moderate breeze was blowing, which was favorable, and though the tide was not yet in their favor, yet the wind was sufficient to bear them out into the bay.  Then the boys all went below again, full of hope.  The night passed away quietly, and without any incident whatever.  They all slept soundly, and the dreams that came to them were pleasant rather than otherwise.

Awaking in the morning by daylight, they all hurried up on deck, and encountered there a new disappointment; for all around them they saw again the hated presence of the fog.  The wind also had died away, and the vessel’s sails flapped idly against her masts.

“Where are we now?” asked Bruce, in a despondent tone.

“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “as nigh as I can reckon, we’re two or three miles outside of St. John harbor.”

“How is the tide?”

“Wal, it’s kine o’ agin us, jest now.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any wind.”

“Not much.”

“Shall we get into St. John to-day?”

“Wal, I kine o’ think we’ll manage it.”

“How soon?”

“Wal, not much afore midday.  You see we’re driftin away jest now.”

“Don’t you intend to anchor till the next rise of tide?”

“O, yes; in about ten minutes we’d ought to be about whar I want to anchor.”

At this disheartening condition of affairs the boys sank once more into a state of gloom.  In about ten minutes, as Captain Corbet said, the schooner was at anchor, and there was nothing to do but to wait.

“We’ll run in at turn o’ tide,” said he.

Breakfast came, and passed.  The meal was eaten in silence.  Then they went on deck again, fretting and chafing at the long delay.  Not much was said, but the boys stood in silence, trying to see through the thick fog.

“It was so fine when we left,” said Bart, “that I thought we’d have it all the way.”

“Wal, so we did ­pooty much all; but then, you see, about four this mornin we run straight into a fog bank.”

“Has the wind changed?”

“Wal, thar don’t seem jest now to be any wind to speak of, but it kine o’ strikes me that it’s somethin like southerly weather.  Hence this here fog.”

After a few hours the vessel began to get under way again; and now, too, there arose a light breeze, which favored them.  As they went on they heard the long, regular blast of a steam whistle, which howled out a mournful note from time to time.  Together with this, they heard, occasionally, the blasts of fog horns from unseen schooners in their neighborhood, and several times they could distinguish the rush of some steamer past them, whose whistle sounded sharply in their ears.

As they drew nearer, these varied sounds became louder, and at length the yell of one giant whistle sounded close beside them.

“We’re a enterin o’ the harbure,” said Captain Corbet.

Hours passed away from the time the Antelope raised anchor until she reached the wharf.  In passing up the harbor, the shadowy forms of vessels at anchor became distinguishable amid the gloom, and in front of them, as they neared the wharf, there arose a forest of masts belonging to schooners.  It was now midday.  Suddenly there arose a fearful din all around.  It was the shriek of a large number of steam whistles, and seemed to come up from every side.

“Is that for the fog?” asked Bruce.

“O, no,” said Bart; “those are the saw-mills whistling for twelve o’clock.”

The boys had already completed their preparations for landing, and had changed their eccentric clothing for apparel which was more suited to making their appearance in society.  Bart had insisted that they should go to his house, and wait until they might decide what to do; and the boys had accepted his hospitable invitation.

They stepped on shore full of hope, not doubting that they would hear news of Tom.  They had persuaded themselves that he had been picked up by some vessel which was coming down the bay, and had probably been put ashore here; in which case they knew that he would at once communicate with Bart’s people.  They even thought that Tom would be there to receive them.

“Of course he will be,” said Bart; “if he did turn up, they’d make him stay at the house, you know; and he’d know that we fellows would come down here in the hope of hearing about him.  So we’ll find him there all right, after all.  Hurrah!”

But, on reaching his home, Bart’s joyous meeting with his family was very much marred by the deep, dark, and bitter disappointment that awaited him and his companions.

They knew nothing whatever about Tom.  Bart’s father was shocked at the story.  He knew that no boy had been picked up adrift in the bay during the past week.  Such an event would have been known.  He felt exceedingly anxious, and at once instituted a search among the coasting vessels.  The search was a thorough one, but resulted in nothing.  There was no one who had seen anything of a drifting boat.  All reported thick fog in the bay.

The result of this search plunged Bart and his friends into their former gloom.

Other searches were made.  Inquiries were sent by telegraph to different places, but without result.

The fate of the missing boy now became a serious question

As for Bart and his friends, they were inconsolable.