Nor was Mr. Grant perturbed. Now that he realised the _Kestrel_ had plenty of sea-room, he had little to worry about. On a still day such as this, sounds could be heard for quite a long distance, and since the continual roar of the Channel swell against the iron-bound coast was inaudible he knew that any danger of the yacht being cast ashore by the strong and intricate currents of the district was a remote one. Noon came, bringing with it no breeze to disperse the dense pall of mist. At times the fog lifted sufficiently to enable the bowsprit-end to be seen; at others it was a matter of difficulty to distinguish objects six feet away. The while the _Kestrel_ was underlying in the game of “chasing her own tail.” Absolutely drifting in a dead calm, she was powerless to answer to her helm. Her bows swung round very slowly through every point of the compass and continued to do so. Yet the while, judging by the drag of the lead-line when allowed to remain in the bottom, she was being swept in an easterly direction by the two-knot tide. Well away to the south’ard came an almost continual braying of many sirens. The steamer track was as yet a safe distance off. By two in the afternoon the crew began to find time hang heavily on their hands. The reaction of having nothing definite to do following upon days of strenuous activity from morn to night was telling. They could see nothing beyond the limits of their floating home, and hardly that. There was plenty to be done by way of “finishing off” various jobs below, but the light was too dim to enable anything in that line to be attempted. They coiled down or “flemished” every rope on deck, spun yarns, tried to teach their overfed and decidedly sleepy mascot various tricks—all without success. “Wish the fog would lift,” remarked Carline. “And a breeze spring up,” added Heavitree, looking wistfully at the idle canvas. The Scoutmaster, too, was puzzled, not only by the persistency of the fog, but by the absence of sound from any of the shore signal stations. In vain he kept listening for the fog signals from the Lizard. That dangerous headland might be only a few miles away and yet the sound be inaudible. Fog, he knew, plays strange tricks with sound. Frequently there are zones of silence over which sounds leap to be distinctly audible at a long distance beyond the source of emission. All he knew concerning the _Kestrel’s_ position was that she was drifting slowly in a south-easterly direction, but that on the turn of the Channel tide—which by no means coincided with the time of high and low water on the shore—the yacht would be swept in the reverse direction and possibly be driven aground on the dangerous coast between the Lizard and the Manacles. No wonder he wished fervently for the fog to lift. The hours passed slowly. It was not until nearly eight o’clock that a faint breeze ruffled the water and the wall of vapour began to disperse.