When, presently, _The Dart_ turned her head eastward the breeze was less apparent. For a moment the sun broke through and the waters of the Sound took on new shades of paler green as they broke past the stern. But the clouds soon closed again. Harry, lying against the low handrail at the edge of the cabin roof, showed an inclination toward slumber. Gerald and Kendall chatted of a hundred things while the launch shot her way steadily and swiftly along. Fishers Island grew larger and nearer. A four-masted schooner lazily dipped by and a long, low torpedo destroyer, her battleship-gray hull scarcely distinguishable from the sullen water, steamed toward the mouth of the Thames River, probably on her way to the Navy Yard above New London. Suddenly a slight exclamation from Gerald brought Kendall’s attention back from the wicked-looking craft. Gerald was gazing southward in surprise. All vestige of Long Island was gone and a bank of gray fog was advancing across the Sound. “I don’t like that,” muttered Gerald, and _The Dart_ circled rapidly and shot away toward home. The sudden turn disturbed Harry’s dreams and he looked down at the others, blinking inquiringly. “What was that? Who shoved me? I say, Gerald, look at the fog out there, will you? Hadn’t we better beat it?” “We’re beating it now,” answered Gerald grimly, advancing the throttle lever a little. The steady whirr of the propeller increased and there was a louder sound from the engine below. “Take the wheel a minute, Kendall, while I douse some oil. Hold her just as she is.” Kendall scrambled over and gripped the rim of the wheel, while Gerald stepped into the cabin and poked around with a long-nosed oil-can. _The Dart_ was headed straight back for Wissining, but there was a good five miles ahead of her and the fog-bank was rolling in fast. Kendall viewed it apprehensively, without realizing just what it meant. It moved toward them steadily, inexorably. At first nearly a mile away, now it was less than half that distance. While he looked a sloop, beating toward Orient Point, grew suddenly faint to view, then disappeared utterly from sight. Gerald came back and took the wheel. “We’ll be in it in another five minutes,” he said. “Hustle down, Harry, and dig the fog-horn out of that after locker. That’s it. Know how to work it? Just turn the handle around as though you were churning ice cream or grinding coffee.” Harry obeyed and a most dismal bellow was emitted from the box. “Isn’t it sweet?” laughed Harry. “Want me to do it again, Gerald?” “Not yet. Put it up on the roof and when the fog hits us give her a turn every half minute or so.” “How far from home are we?” asked Gerald, looking down the shore. “Oh, three miles or so. She’s making a good sixteen miles now, but I’ll have to bring her down to four or five in a minute or two. Here she comes, fellows!”