smudged out, and nothin' in sight but this pearl-gray mist. It ain't
very thick, you know, and only a little damp. Rummy article, this
State of Maine fog!

Young Hollister is standin' up now, tryin' to keep his bearin's and
doin' his best to look through the haze. He slows the engine down
until we're only just chuggin' along.

"Let's see," says he, "wasn't Squirrel off there a moment ago?"

"Why, no," says Vee. "I thought it was more to the left."

"By Jove!" says he. "And there are rocks somewhere around here too!"

Funny how quick you can get turned around that way. Inside of three
minutes I couldn't have told where we were at, any more'n if I'd been
blindfolded in a cellar. And I guess young Hollister got to that
condition soon after.

"We ought to be making the south end of Fisherman's soon," he observes.

But we didn't. He has me climb out on the bow to sing out if I see
anything. But, say, there was less to see than any spot I was ever in.
I watched and watched, and Payne kept on gettin' nervous. And still we
keeps chuggin' and chuggin', steerin' first one way and then the other.
It seemed hours we'd been gropin' around that way when----

"Rocks ahead!" I sings out as something dark looms up. Payne turns her
quick; but before she can swing clear bang goes the bow against
something solid and slides up with a gratin' sound. He tries backin'