“Not if we’re in the middle of the river,” said Bob. “Let’s keep on a bit farther. Dan saw land a moment ago over there. Suppose I head that way and we creep over until we find it again. Then we won’t be in danger of being run down by somebody.” “That’s so,” answered Nelson. “Keep your eyes open, Dan.” So the _Vagabond_ took up her travels again, groping her way through the gray mist, with Dan peering anxiously from the bow. It was rather exciting while it lasted and the monotonous screech of the whistle breaking the silence lent an uncanny touch to the adventure. Then—— “Stop her!” called Dan, and Bob repeated the injunction to Nelson at the engine. The propeller stopped and the launch floated softly through the mist. “Star-board a little,” said Dan. Bob turned the wheel. “All right,” said Dan. “How’s this, Nel?” Nelson had joined him and was peering perplexedly through the fog. “I don’t see any land,” he said finally. “Over there. I can’t see it myself now, though. Wait a bit and the fog will thin. There it is,” said Dan. “See that dark line?” “Yes. Let’s put the anchor down. Stand by the cable, will you? It’s all snarled up.” There was a splash which sounded momentously loud in the stillness and the cable ran out for some ten feet. “We must be pretty well in toward shore,” said Nelson. “Now what?” asked Bob, working his way forward over the slippery deck. They looked from one to another. Finally—— “Stay here until the fog lifts and we can find Tommy, I guess,” said Nelson. “Hang Tommy, anyhow,” said Bob disgustedly. “He’s always getting lost in the fog.” “Yes, it’s the easiest thing he does,” agreed Dan. “He ought to write a book about it when he gets home. ‘Fogs I Have Met, by Thomas Courtenay Ferris.’” “Supposing we shoot off that revolver of yours a few times?” Nelson suggested. “All right,” said Bob. “I’ll get it.” “It was a dandy joke of yours, Dan,” said Nelson. Dan shrugged his shoulders and wiped the drops from his face against his sleeve. “How the dickens was I to know this fool fog was coming up?” he asked. “Here, let me shoot that, Bob.” “You run away,” answered Bob, as he filled the chamber of his revolver. “But I feel that I am to blame in the matter,” said Dan earnestly, “and I ought to be allowed to do all I can to—er—remedy things.” “Well, you can’t shoot my revolver,” answered Bob dryly. “But you can hold the cartridges.” “Let me shoot once,” Dan begged. Bob relented and between them they banged away into the air until there was a good-sized hole in the contents of the cartridge box and Bob called a halt. Then they listened attentively. “There!” whispered Dan. “Steamboat whistle,” said Bob, and Nelson nodded concurrence. “Let’s shout,” said Dan. They shouted. Then they stopped and listened again. There was not a sound to be heard save the faint lapping of the waves against the shore. CHAPTER XVIII—IN WHICH TOM PUTS UP AT THE SEAMONT INN