When Bob awoke the next morning it was to a gray world. The open ports were rimmed with tiny drops of moisture and the mist swirled in like films of smoke. He got out of bed, traversed the cabin, thrust open the hatch and put his head out of doors. The morning was warm and still, so still that the voice of some one on the wharf hundreds of feet away sounded close at hand, so still that the lapping of the water against the hull, usually unnoted, seemed a veritable clamor. The deck, cockpit floor, cabin roof, all surfaces were covered with miniature pools, and Bob’s hands, clasping the doorway, came away wringing wet. There was nothing to be seen in any direction, save that now and then, as the mist momentarily lessened, the upper part of the mast and rigging of a sloop moored some thirty feet away from the _Vagabond_ became dimly visible. It was as though some mischievous giant had in the night, with a sweep of his hand, sponged everything out of existence, everything save the _Vagabond_ and the little fog-rimmed pool of water in which she sat. It was wonderful and uncanny. It was also very damp, and Bob, standing at the cabin entrance, gazing blankly about him, felt the tiny particles of moisture, blown on a light southwest breath from the ocean, settling on his face and damping his pyjamas until they began to cling to him. He beat a retreat to the cabin, drawing the doors closed behind him, and proceeded to awaken his companions by the simple expedient of pulling the bedclothes off them. “Get up and look at the fog,” he commanded. “It’s all over the shop and so thick you can cut it with a knife—any knife, even Dan’s!” “That’s all right,” muttered Tom, striving to keep warm by bringing his knees up to his chin, “you cut me a slice, Bob, and toast it lightly on both sides.” “Want any butter?” asked Bob solicitously. “There isn’t any,” answered Tom sleepily. “Isn’t any?” cried Dan, waking up very suddenly. “What the dickens are we going to do for breakfast?” “There’s some lard,” murmured Tom. Dan leaped out of his berth and rolled Tom onto the floor. “Here, you! Are you telling the truth? Isn’t there really any butter for breakfast?” “Not a bit,” answered Tom cheerfully. “We ran out of it yesterday noon and I forgot to get any last night. Butter’s very unhealthy, though, Dan; it gives a fellow boils. I read in a paper just the other day that we eat too much butter and grease. We really oughtn’t, you know.” “I vote we make Tommy go and get some,” said Nelson, yawning and sitting up on the edge of his berth. “Oh, I’ll go,” replied Tom, climbing to his feet, “if you think you must have it. It is bad for you, though, honest! Look at Dan’s complexion already! It’s awful! For his sake, Nel, supposing we leave butter out for a few days.” “My complexion!” jeered Dan. “Look at your own, Tommy!”